


Autumn Hollow

by shotgunsinlace



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Horror, Drug Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mildly Dubious Consent, PTSD, Slurs, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-05
Updated: 2014-03-05
Packaged: 2018-01-14 10:48:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 98,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1263472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shotgunsinlace/pseuds/shotgunsinlace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When tragedy strikes late one Californian night, author C.J. Novak searches for a place to start his life anew. The long road filled with shadows and doubts take him to Nires Island, a small fishing town off the coast of Maine where the food is good and the neighbors are polite. But when nightmares of drowning threaten the fragile threads of Castiel’s sanity, the picturesque shores of Autumn Hollow don’t look quite so pretty any more. The dead walk, the vengeful haunt, the darkness stalks, and Dean Winchester may be more than just the shady mechanic who somehow manages to destroy Castiel’s defenses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Finally posting this baby after having it sit in my completed folder for more than a year. This was written for NaNoWriMo back in 2012, but I was severely unhappy with the final product for far too long until my betas [almaasi](http://almaasi.tumblr.com/) and [thewonderofliving](http://thewonderofliving.tumblr.com/) swooped in to save the day.
> 
> This story is fairly dark, and deals with some problematic situations so I want to take the moment to say that the views and expressions in this fic are by no means the ones of the author.
> 
>   
> [Art Masterpost by Almaasi](http://almaasi.livejournal.com/25410.html) || [Fanmix](http://8tracks.com/shotgunsinlace/autumn-hollow)  
> 

The leather armchair squeaks and puffs when Castiel unceremoniously lets himself fall onto it, instantly interlocking his fingers as soon as he finds a position comfortable enough to spend the next hour in.

His skin is sticky from the heat, sweat drying on his temples when the chill of the air-conditioner begins to cool him off. Castiel was mindful enough to freshen up his deodorant in the car before stepping into the building. It’s ninety degrees outside, and he’s wearing a suit and trench coat, so he hopes Doctor Visyak will forgive the layer of perspiration contaminating her potpourri-scented office.

Lavender colored walls, white carpets, stainless steel appliances, skyline view of San Francisco—it’s all very chic and _Metropolitan Home_. He guesses it’s meant to ease the distress of sitting in a psychiatrist’s office, about to have one’s brains picked at for any tell-tale signs of instability.

The digital clock over a squid statue reads 3:37PM.

Behind the desk by the window sits Doctor Eleanor Visyak, a haughty woman somewhere in her mid-fifties. Her blonde hair and designer suit are a statement of clinical authority, and Castiel is forced to think before he speaks. He’s aware that lingering too long on his answers is the exact opposite of what he should be doing, but Castiel has learned to never challenge a woman, or else risk being burned.

“You’ve missed your previous two appointments. Had it not been for Gabriel calling in when he did, I would have prematurely cancelled today’s as well,” Dr. Visyak says, sitting prim and proper on her office chair.

“I’m aware of this, yes.” Absently circling his thumbs, Castiel offers her a professional smile. “I was at a book signing appointment and it slipped my mind.”

“No phone?”

“Yes, I—I know, I’m sorry. I should have—”

“And your other appointments?”

Castiel straightens his back, placing his elbows on the armrests while flexing his fingers still. It’s a nervous tic, and he knows that she knows this much. He quietly resents Gabriel for putting him through this, under the all-seeing eye of a stranger.

“There’s no excuse,” he says simply. And it’s the truth.

“Finally being honest, are we, Mr. Novak?”

Pressing his lips into a thin line, Castiel nods his head. “I suppose.”

Humming thoughtfully, Dr. Visyak takes a notebook and pen from her desk. “What matters is that we’re here now.” She flips through a series of pages until she settles on one, silently reading and scribbling at random times.

Castiel impatiently waits for her to start talking, desperately wanting for the hour to be over already. His focus is on the bookshelf to his right, where he spots a volume of H.P. Lovecraft’s _The Complete Horror Compendium_ wedged between endless collections on psychology and anatomy, when Dr. Visyak interrupts the stiff silence.

“All right, let’s start off by asking how your book launch went.” Closing the notebook over her lap, she places her hands over it and gives him a kind smile. “A best-seller, I heard. Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” he says, halfway between honest and unsure. “Um, well, it’s been… a long couple of days. A lot of people, coffee—not enough sleep. I feel… relieved, mostly because I don’t have to worry about my higher-ups trying to murder me for lack of new material.” He laughs uncertainly, but sobers up when her face remains impassive. “That’s about it.”

“You haven’t been sleeping enough?”

“I’m on _tour_ ,” he says. “I’ve been from Oregon to Virginia, and six states in between, in just a week. It’s perfectly _normal_ to lose sleep.”

The hum of the air conditioner is the only sound that interrupts the sudden silence.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t mean to shout.”

“All is forgiven.”

She says nothing more, and it only takes seconds for the itch to fill the quiet manifests across his skin. Castiel will take anything but silence, even if he has to ramble for God knows how long.

“I’m not fond of hotel rooms,” he says. “Not because the pillows are too hard, or the coffee tastes terrible regardless of the five-star quality.” Castiel taps his fingertips against his knees. “They’re… impersonal.”

“You would rather spend time at home?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know.” Castiel shrugs half-heartedly. “My house, I know its ditches and holes; the shadowy spots where people won’t be able to find me. I know through where I can get out if something were to happen. At a hotel, I can jot down the exits; sleep with the door halfway locked or unlocked, depending on my mood. I don’t know what’s better: an easy way out, or an easy way to keep it out. But it’s… _impersonal_. I can’t control when those things change.”

“No one can change the emergency routes overnight, Castiel,” says Dr. Visyak, her tone patronizing.

Castiel remains perfectly still, for the exception of his mouth, which he feels involuntarily lift at its edges. “No one can break into a house in the dead of night without tripping the alarm.”

“Technology is unreliable.”

“The fruit doesn’t fall too far from the tree.”

“Is this what you want to talk about today? The unreliability of humans?”

“Truth be told, I don’t wish to talk about anything.”

Castiel wonders if the cold emotionlessness in a psychiatrist’s face truly does make it easier for the patients to talk. Personally, he finds it unsettling. He could yell, cry, cuss, and Dr. Visyak would remain as stoic as the painting behind her desk. She is an ivory statue holding in her palms the balance of the human mind.

“We’re on your time,” she says. “Tell me about the impersonality of hotel rooms. You seemed fine talking about that. What is it that you want to keep out?”

His nails scratch at the fabric of his pants, but he doesn’t answer.

Dr. Visyak cants her head to the side, the only motion that tells Castiel that she’s real, rather than a robot, as he suspected. “Do you still think the monsters are trying to get you?”

The sound of his heartbeat thudding in his ears stops, and the ticking of the digital clock grinds to a halt.

_Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep._

_If I shall die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take._

Licking his lips, Castiel says: “Monster. Only one.”

He still has nightmares of the darkness that drifted through the tombstones at San Francisco’s Holy Trinity Cemetery, impervious to the shrill singing of the church choir: women and men in white robes, singing their praise in honor of the deceased.

There is another beat of silence before Dr. Visyak stands up, places her notebook on the desk and walks over to her bookcase. Castiel figures the intention is to think rather than to choose a book.

“Police have dropped all charges against you, therefore you are no longer a suspect. Yet this monster still haunts you.”

Castiel sighs as he turns his face towards the ceiling. “I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve said this. That thing isn’t a figment of my imagination. It’s not a coping mechanism, and neither is it some manufactured reality triggered by PTSD. I’m not insane, Dr. Visyak, I really am not.”

“Ninety-four percent of psychotics think they’re perfectly sane, so I guess we’d have to ask ourselves, ‘what is sane?’.”

Irritation slowly begins to curl in Castiel’s chest. “I am not crazy,” he says, words slow and deliberate, giving no room for misconceptions.

Dr. Visyak turns towards him, her hands joined at the small of her back. “A case of mistaken identity, then? The killer you insist crept into your home and killed your family, when in fact, neither wife nor child were inside the home at the time of the incident.”

“I don’t know—”

“Humans can be scarier than monsters, Mr. Novak. The mind is a potent thing, capable of things beyond your wildest imagination.”

“It wasn’t a person, Dr. Visyak.”

“There is no such thing as monsters—”

“I’m not _crazy!_ ”

“—and until you accept that fact, Castiel, you will never be able to move on from this issue.”

Her face remains unchanged, cold and calculating, though her eyes burn into him with what reeks of contempt.

The session is over with twenty five minutes to spare.

“Thank you for your time, Doctor. That will be all.” Adjusting his suit jacket when he stands up, Castiel clears his throat, head held high. While walking towards the door, he adds: “I’ll be calling to reschedule my next appointments. These coming months will be difficult to accommodate them.”

“Of course. Whenever you need to talk, you know where to find my office,” Dr. Visyak says, not moving from her place before the bookcase. “Make sure not to let the darkness win.”

With a hand on the doorknob, Castiel snorts derisively. “Have a good day, Doctor,” he says, and shuts the door behind him with a conclusive click.


	2. The House

As a writer, there are certain things Castiel is well-versed in. He knows just enough to be able to craft a believable story that can capture any reader’s attention. He creates worlds with complex politics and social pyramids—adds a hint of paranoia, a distressed hero, a properly placed plot twist. Weaves the characters from a wayward bubble of an idea, gives them life and a purpose, quirky personality traits and a cliché accent. Pours a little bit of himself into it, and they’re no longer single-dimensional creations. He gives them a weakness, a tragic past, unrequited love, and he's got himself a best-seller he's sure won’t rot on the Barnes & Noble clearance shelf.

His stories are composed of elaborate lies, much like his talk show interviews, but what is a story if not a web of colorfully twisted clouds of make-believe? Prose and exposition pulled from the thin air of the bus stop, the checkout line at the supermarket, or, Castiel’s favorite, the bathtub.

He relies on his lies because Castiel has previously led an easy life, nothing interesting enough to talk about. The usual straight As, rarely the partying type, very much the conventional artist, the churchgoer, the kid that never swore; he had been as bland as bland could possibly be. For years before he learned to pen lies, he had tried spilling his ideas onto a blank piece of paper, and then a blank document, when he could finally afford a laptop.

But that changed one night.

Give a character a tragic experience, and they’ll block it out. They will build a life around it. If they’re stubborn enough, they’ll be able to move on and not remember unless something directly triggers the same kind of desperation.

A good character always needs a fresh beginning, something mainstream literature will eat up in a heartbeat.

Nires Island isn’t as tiny as Castiel thought it would be, with a population just this side of a thousand. Tourists are few this time a year, the autumn chill too sharp to be comfortable for those mainlanders looking for a bite of lemon-basted lobster and a side of pumpkin pie. It’s a comely place lined with dainty wooden houses and oak trees in hues of brown and orange. The seaside is always just a walk away, its waters calm and gray, but glowing in the pale sunshine. The island is a slice of paradise just off the coast of Maine, and not for the first time, Castiel wonders just why he hasn’t stopped by more often.

The gray sedan Castiel drove all the way from home rolls silently into the adjoining garage of his new seafront house, and he turns it off with a resigned sigh. San Francisco is now a long way behind him, left to rot in a vault he doesn’t plan on opening ever again. 

Soft flicks of dread inhabit the pit of his stomach, strengthening when the monotone blankness of his mind that had solely concentrated on the soothing roll of tires over asphalt comes to an end. The sandy shores nudge at the dreamlike state he’s been in for the last couple of days like a needle tracing a balloon, and, crossing that final line into his new residence, finally pops it.

He’s grieved long enough.

Opening the door, Castiel reaches for his laptop case and unplugs his phone, slipping it into the front pocket of his blazer. The cold hits him hard and he shivers, but he pushes the door shut with his foot and walks out into the front lawn, his most professional smile set in place.

His realtor, a blonde woman in her mid-thirties, greets him with a firm handshake. “So glad you could make it, Mr. Novak.”

“Please, call me Castiel. Apologies for my lateness, the ferry got delayed due to bad weather, and my phone’s battery died a few hours ago. I hope you haven’t been here all morning.”

The woman shakes her head and turns to the house, silently asking him to follow. “Not at all, just drove in about twenty minutes ago. Saw the weather on the news this morning.” Her voice quietens as she enters through the front door, but rather than following, Castiel stops to admire the house before he reaches the steps leading to his porch.

It’s a colonial chalet painted in different shades of beige and brown. The glass windows are tiny, with the exception of the master bedroom’s, which he’d specifically had expanded for a better view of the sea. There are two rocking chairs and a table waiting on the porch beside the door, and he can easily see himself entertaining a cup of coffee while he takes a break from ceaseless hours of writing. 

_Cozy_ is the first word that comes to Castiel’s mind. The house is cozy, as it rests nestled between two live oaks and the sea.

The interior, unlike the outside, is modern, from stainless steel kitchens to Italian furniture in his living room. It’s fitting for some hipster artist in his early twenties, not a bitter thirty-something-year-old science fiction writer. Despite that, Castiel likes it. There are no cheery walls painted in eccentric color-schemes, no exotic statues bought in shady flea markets, no rustic themes. The pictures of this house on the Internet didn't do the real thing justice, but Castiel has no complaints. He finds it bland, and he feels genuinely grateful for that.

“It’s strange,” he says, fixing a navy blue curtain that had tangled itself on a floor lamp.

“What is?”

“The weather. The mainland isn’t even an hour’s boat-ride away, and yet it’s perfectly sunny here.” Castiel sets his laptop on the coffee table in front of the fireplace. “I figured the water would be choppier.”

“Back when I lived in Boston,” the lady says, walking into the living room with two empty mugs, "it used to be the same. On my street, the heat would be melting the plastic off the flowers on my kitchen counter. Meanwhile, two streets over, it looked like monsoon season at its peak.” She pours hot coffee into both mugs from a thermos flask, offering one to Castiel.

Castiel declines the drink with a polite shake of the head, walking around the living room and inspecting the barely-noticeable floral pattern of the wallpaper. “Happens all the time in California,” he says with a tight-lipped smile. He’s aware of those types of weather patterns, but the stark contrast between the two on such short notice left him perplexed.

“Was it any trouble? Getting these walls covered, I mean,” Castiel says.

The realtor chuckles while casually pulling a coaster out of her breast pocket, before setting it on the table and placing the extra mug on it. “Not at all. Nothing some heavy-duty paint and paper couldn’t take care of. I got in contact with old man Robinson, try and pry some information about the previous owners, but nothing came up. Strange, but nothing to worry about. This house has been here for decades, maybe even centuries.”

“That’s not a very comforting thought,” he says, his tone devoid of any humor.

When Castiel first came to check the property, he had been enchanted by the dramatic setting. July’s sweltering heat and vibrant hues of green had swayed his heart and captured his imagination. He had seen himself living within a wooden dream, inside a house that was silent but for the rapid clicks of his keyboard. It was devoid of life, but that in itself granted him peace.

The macabre scribbles, however, had been an issue.

Scratched into the wood walls were pictures no one could decipher. The symbols and words set a chill to Castiel's bones, even if he couldn’t understand a single thing. Luckily, all he had to do was request for the walls to be painted. 

Castiel Novak doesn’t believe in the supernatural, and therefore he isn’t troubled by anything resembling it. It’s a self-defensive lie he frequently tells himself.

Clinically looking at the walls she says, “Oh, it’s nothing like that. Our team had this beauty reinforced from the foundation to the beams. It’ll most likely outlive us all.” She sips noisily at her coffee, and mutters something Castiel doesn’t bother catching. “Go have a look upstairs. I’m sure you’ll love what we’ve done with the place.”

Nodding his head, Castiel leaves her behind and heads up the narrow stairway. He’s glad to find that it no longer creaks with each step he takes.

The second floor is spacious. All of the doors are open, revealing small but comfortable rooms with open windows. The smell of salt is strong yet somewhat pleasant, and Castiel inhales the tang with deep satisfaction. The dark wood has been polished.

He counts three new rugs: one at the top of the stairs, one in the guest bedroom, and one in the master bedroom. They’re fuzzy, and Castiel distinctly remembers ordering less fuzzy ones, but he can’t complain, not when he kicks off his shoes and stands barefoot on the one beside his king-sized bed.

His room is big, exactly as he had requested it be remodeled. The pale blue of the walls complement the navy of the curtains and rugs nicely, and it accents the deep brownish red of his furniture in a rich way. He arches an eyebrow at the tiny anchor left on top of his desk, perhaps a trinket from the realtor, a housewarming gift.

To the left, a doorway leads to his private study, its walls lined with endless bookshelves for his hoarding pleasure. His desk is by the window, an iron floor lamp standing by its side. It’s perfect, he thinks, as he fantasizes about long hours spent on the leather chair. He could do without the finger cramps.

Walking back out into the hallway, Castiel peeks into the other three rooms. A bathroom, a guest bedroom, and a storage room. Minimalist and compact, and he couldn’t possibly ask for a better deal.

He descends into the kitchen and shakes hands with the kind lady, his smile practiced yet honest as he does so. “It’s perfect.”

“She’s been strictly remade to your specifications, sir. Should anything be out of place, please don’t hesitate to give me a call. My number’s on the card.” She pulls out a beige slip that has dark blue cursive lettering on it.

Once at the door, she turns to Castiel with a hesitant sigh. “If Balthazar asks,” she starts, but Castiel is already waving her away.

“I’ll put in a good word for you, ma’am, at the first chance I get.” Of course things always come with a cost, sometimes ridiculous ones. He should have known that no one could possibly land a deal on such a treasure of a house, not without some significant exchange. Its location alone was something to marvel at. 

All Balthazar ever had to do is smile and wink, and people fell at his feet, willing to do anything he requested. But Castiel had not even budged the first time Balthazar had tried it, which was an act that had solidified their friendship so many years ago, back when Castiel was still looking for his big break. The man had tried teaching Castiel a thing or two about the wonders of charm and seduction, but the lessons had ended on a rather sour note.

The blonde woman gives an appreciative hum and walks outside. “I do hope you enjoy your stay at Nires Island. We aren’t all that big a place, but the neighbors are friendly at the food is delish.” She sounds like one of those commercials urging people to practice internal tourism.

“Thank you, Miss Carter,” Castiel says, finally recalling her name from their previous conversations. 

He waves to her as she drives the SUV away from his property.

He’s left standing alone on the porch of his new house, in a new state, and in a new cardigan that makes his neck itch.

Rolling his shoulders, he walks back inside.

He rummages through the albums he keeps in his laptop’s case, pulls out a CD and slips it into his stereo. Ella Fitzgerald’s sweet voice blooms out of the speakers, filling the empty rooms with the jazz of ages.

Slapping his palms together, and rubbing them for no real reason, Castiel sighs.

He’s tired, hungry, and in desperate need of a shower, but first things first. In truth, he won’t be able to rest until at least some of his belongings are properly stored away, just enough to kill the constant echo of his breathing. Humming along to the song, he gets to it.

The boxes he’s had in storage for the last few weeks are already waiting for him in the garage, all of them properly labeled, most of them nothing more than books. He searches until he finds the ones with clothing in them, and easily balances them over his head as he walks back inside, tapping out the rhythm against the cardboard.

He gives a little twirl at the doorway, marching up the stairs to the beat. As he drops the box by the bed, his phone starts to vibrate, startling him from his musical bout. Balthazar’s name is shining in neon colors; a text message, asking him if he’s settled in and would like to go for something to eat. With a quiet laugh, Castiel lets himself fall onto the bed. He hums appreciatively at the softness of the mattress, and how it envelops his strained form.

 _Guess I’m home now_ , he types, eyes stinging at the glare of the screen. _It’s nicer than I remember it being._

He waits for his response.

The sun is still bright and high up in the sky, making the room glow with white light as it bounces off mirrors and still-empty picture frames. There are photos in one of the boxes buried in the garage, but he’s in no hurry to dig it up. He’ll do it eventually, but for the time being, he is satisfied with the faded two-by-two in his wallet. The memories of his dead wife were better off left in San Francisco.

His dead wife.

Castiel pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs, dropping his hand, his eyes following the constant circles of the ceiling fan above, absently trailing the leaf patterns.

He doesn’t refuse to pull out those photographs because he thinks his family ought to be forgotten, nor is it that he doesn’t wish to remember, but simply because he remembers too much.

Six years he’s spent staring off into nothing, asking why. Why this, why that, why me. Questions, those he can deal with. He can bear looking at the bright eyes and dark hair forever frozen on a square Polaroid. But he can't bear the memory it brings, of back when the world was his. Castiel was king in the tiny kingdom of his home, where he loved and adored both his queen and little prince. Now, he feels the loss of the warm touch he had grown so attached to, and that's what he tries to shy away from.

It’s the reason why he left San Francisco. California held nothing but that too-familiar heat, far too close to his heart, threatening to burn and consume the charred remnants of his spirit.

The photos can stay in their box a while longer. First, he needs to find his footing. Castiel needs to assimilate this place as home now, find himself and settle into his own skin once more. He needs to write.

His skin itches. His brain screams. His chest constricts.

The phone begins vibrating again.

“Must have dozed off,” is the first thing Castiel says, rubbing away at his eyes, where the heaviness of a two-minute nap makes itself noticed.

_“On an empty stomach? Honestly, Cassie, when was the last time you ate something hot, hm?”_

“Is that supposed to be an innuendo?”

 _“Actually, no, it isn’t.”_ Balthazar speaks but his voice sounds distant, maybe saying something to someone else. _“There’s a diner in town, right next to the gas station. It’s big and brown, I’m sure you can’t miss it.”_

Castiel yawns, stretching out on the bed and relishing in the pop of his joints. “Can’t this wait until tomorrow?”

_“Depends. Have you shopped for groceries yet?”_

He considers this, frowning at the realization. “No, I haven’t. Fine. I’ll be there at…” Castiel looks off to his right, seeing the clock on the wall, “five.”

_“You’ll love the clam chowder and biscuits.”_

“I’m sure I will.”

_“There’s also lemon-basted lobster. You can have that with a side of baked potato and a martini.”_

“That sounds lovely.”

Balthazar remains silent for a brief moment. _“How are you feeling, Castiel?”_

“I’m fine,” Castiel mutters, sounding less than convincing to his own ears. “A little fatigued, perhaps.”

_“Then take a nap before you leave. I’ll introduce you to the locals, help you get your mind off things. Ellen will love you—”_

Castiel stretches again while Balthazar drones on, willing the stress away as the comfort of the bed molds itself to his back. Castiel is startled when something dark meanders into view out of the corner of his eye, and he quickly turns towards it, his heart beating faster than just a second before. It’s only the statue of an anchor, about the size of his hand, and his body sags in relief.

“It feels heavy,” Castiel interrupts, still staring at the ceramic gift, as if it would move the moment he looked away.

_“What are you blabbering about?”_

“The house.”

_“The house feels heavy? Is this some sort of code?”_

Toeing off his socks, Castiel sits up. “I can’t really explain it. And no, it has nothing to do with the drawings,” he adds immediately, already dreading Balthazar’s sigh over the line. “They had the walls covered.” He wiggles his toes. “Which reminds me, Miss Carter suggests I put in a good word for her.”

There’s a snort on the other end of the line. _“You’re the celebrity here. Shouldn’t she be hitting on you?”_

“Seems that—a proper lady such as herself—has a thing for debauchers.”

Balthazar has the decency to laugh, making Castel smile as he makes his way towards one of the boxes he has brought in. The time of the accorded rendezvous is still two hours away, but first he is in need of a good shower.

 _“She is attractive,”_ Balthazar says, and Castiel recognizes the tone.

“Balthazar,” he starts, but the other man is already talking.

_“Give her a call and ask her out for a drink, nothing too fancy. Maybe go dancing, or even a movie. It doesn’t necessarily have to be a date.”_

Pulling the cardboard flaps apart, Castiel rummages for a pair of underwear and decent slacks. “I don’t have time for this. Zachariah will have my head if I don’t at least have a blur of an idea on a document by the end of the month.”

 _“All work and no play, you’ll burn yourself out before you’ve even started on your next story.”_ The line goes silent, and Castiel notices that he no longer hears the wind howling over Balthazar’s voice. He hears the beep of an alarm, and the jangle of keys. _“When was the last time you even got laid?”_

Castiel groans. “I’m not having this conversation again.”

_“Come on, sweetheart. Brush the dust off those bones, live a little. New life and all, might as well get a little dirty, eh?”_

“You are a terrible influence.”

Balthazar laughs, the sound of music now filling the background.

Castiel lowers the phone from his ear, realizing that he hasn’t been hearing his own music in the background. It wasn’t that long ago that he inserted the album into the stereo, it shouldn’t have finished yet.

He creeps out into the hallway, fresh clothing draped over his shoulder, and finds the house deathly quiet. Without thinking, he taps the phone’s screen, ending the call. He’ll apologize to Balthazar later.

“Hello?”

Science fiction may be Castiel’s choice of writing material, but he’s read his fair share of horror and murder mysteries before; his impressive library is proof of that. Once the word is out of his mouth, he instantly regrets it. You never alert the assailant of your presence if you wish to live to tell the tale.

The silence is dense, as if all sound has been sucked out, and the house vacuumed shut. Castiel has hosted yoga sessions in complete silence, he has been locked in a holding cell in the dead of night without so much as a working clock, but no other moment in his life quite compares to this. This feels like the nightmares he tries to scream in and no sound comes out, where the very air constricts his lungs, and fear settles deep inside his mind.

Castiel gasps when his phone begins to vibrate, but he ignores it and shoves it in his back pocket.

Taking deep breaths, he slinks down the staircase, grateful that it no longer creaks.

The house is empty, completely untouched, for the exception of a small being that has stopped by to keep him company.

Castiel lets out a shaky laugh, leaning against a wall as he stares at the tabby cat lying on top of his stereo. Yellow eyes blink lazily, its fluffy tail swaying rhythmically as it regards Castiel with the same detachment all cats do.

“How did you get in here?” The front door is locked, all the windows closed. Castiel inches towards it, tentatively reaching out his hand. “At least you’re not a murderer,” he says, sounding bemused.

Surprisingly, the cat bobs its head into his hand, purring warmly at the touch. 

“I’m not intruding on your property am I?” 

The cat stands up, rubbing its fat body against Castiel now that he is petting it in earnest.

Looking over, Castiel sees that the stereo has been unplugged. The ambience of the house is back, and he’s never been happier to hear the rushing sea water, or the wind as it hits against the wooden walls. It was all just an episode of paranoia, maybe, or stress finally getting to him. He doesn’t know whether to be relieved or concerned.

The cat jumps off the stereo and saunters into the kitchen to lap at a bowl of water that rests right next to a bowl of cat food. Castiel raises an eyebrow, and doesn’t bother plugging the stereo in again.

“No one told me the house came with a cat,” he says, leaning on the counter to watch the feline nibble at its food. “Although, I wouldn’t mind the company.” He has always liked cats, but everybody he has lived with throughout his life has been allergic. Living on your own does have its perks.

Castiel leaves the cat to its dinner and makes a beeline for the bathroom on the second floor. He texts Balthazar along the way, saying that he ran out of battery. It wouldn’t do to go around discussing random episodes, despite Balthazar being his friend for the better part of seven years.

Balthazar replies with an emoticon, the ‘frowny face’, but doesn’t press.

The bathroom, much like the other rooms in the house, is small.

After a few false starts, the heater finally gets going as Castiel undresses and steps underneath the hot spray, the customized showerhead pelting deliciously against his back. Shivers run down his spine as he lets the water sluice its way from hair to toes, making him sigh with pleasure. He loves hot showers on cold days, something he rarely got in San Francisco.

While washing his face, he makes a note to shave once he gets back from the diner. Not that he minds the beard, Balthazar says it accents his ‘brooding writer’ personality rather nicely, and he has to agree somewhat. It also keeps most interested individuals at bay.

Stepping out of the shower, Castiel brushes his teeth, towel-dries his mess of dark hair, and puts on his pants.

He lingers in front of the mirror, thoughtfully running a hand across his beard. Might as well, he thinks, and reaches for a razor in his travel pack.

Most people would be grateful, but Castiel finds his ‘good looks’ to be a nuance. Puberty turned him from a lanky and goofy kid with awkward angles into a dashing man with strangely-shaped lips. His late wife insisted that it only made them look far more kissable, and he had bought into it during the six years of their marriage.

He hated it.

A few years after graduation, once he had said ‘I do’, Castiel vowed that no one else would ever feel the seal of his lips, or the dig of his fingertips, or his panting breath. These things, these intimate actions, belonged to his wife and no one else. No one would tenderly touch his cheek or hold his gaze. His marriage might not have been perfect, _she_ might not have been perfect, but they were to him. Holding Jeremy, the fruit of their union, had been perfection to Castiel.

As good as he is when it comes to bottling it all up and burying it down, Castiel still craves for warmth, just the tiniest hint of affection. Without any family, there's nothing there. The appreciative looks and suggestive invitations are always so empty, devoid of any love. He doesn't want a good time, he doesn't want a good lay, he wants love. And he’d had it, had it all, only to have it ripped away from him in a single night.

He is desired. He knows he’s handsome, he just doesn’t feel like he is. He feels ugly and scarred, a broken shell of a man, so he hides behind his computer screen. His talents and knowledge are vast, but the lethargy in his soul keeps him from manifesting as he once did.

Castiel splashes water over his face, rubs away at puffy eyes and takes a deep breath. He will continue as he has done for the last six years. He doesn’t need anyone in his bed, doesn’t need anyone to tell him how ‘gorgeous’ he is.

The razor is old, so it leaves a light shadow behind, not that he minds.

He dries his face and slips on his turtle-neck sweater, makes a mental note to grab his coat from the room before he leaves. He now looks less like a hobo and more like a writer, and his stomach grumbles with agreement.

After grabbing his pea coat, he makes his way out the door, looking over his shoulder to spot the cat sleeping soundly on the couch. He rolls his eyes, and heads for his car.

•••

It’s a rainy afternoon, typical for early autumn.

The Roadhouse is far easier to spot than Castiel expected; its rough exterior, despite the glass windows and neon sign, is nothing short of conspicuous. It rests between a gas station and a flower shop, and has no parking spaces, so Castiel leaves the car pulled right up against the sidewalk. He’s certain he’ll come back to find the car side-swiped and missing a mirror.

Inside, the place is warm and smells of both greasy and baked food. Vinyl booths line the walls, for the exception of a gap that is occupied by an ancient jukebox playing preppy pop music, the volume just unobtrusive enough that the chatter of people drowns it out. To the left, there’s a wall covered with picture frames, some of them black and white, and others fresh out of the printer.

It looks like a cliché family-owned diner, where the person behind the counter knows everybody and their mother, and everybody calls them either Ma or Pop. Castiel is ready to bet that they make the best pies in town.

It would have been lovelier if the entire place hadn’t gone quiet the moment he walked in, the dozen or so patrons enjoying their dinners all turning dubious eyes on him. Castiel shifts on the spot, instantly feeling like a trapped intruder whose cover has been blown. He gives them a polite smile, but it does nothing to ease the tension.

When he hurriedly takes a seat, the others return to their own conversations, no doubt with a new subject on their tongues.

The clock above the jukebox says ten past five, and Balthazar is nowhere in sight. This is not out of the ordinary, considering that tardiness was why Balthazar was asked to resign his post in the publishing house a few years back. He had been an amazing agent, but his tendency to slack off had cost him his job. Balthazar saw it as a sign, and took an early retirement, settling down with his partner on Nires Island.

Castiel rubbed his palms together, the outside chill still lingering in his fingers. He removes his coat and leans back into the booth, looking out the windows to watch the cars drive by and the raindrops race each other in random patterns.

He has yet to meet any of the locals, but the island truly is a lovely place, kissed by autumn’s colors and a pleasant kind of cold that makes him want to bury himself under soft sheets.

“Hello there, stranger,” a young woman says, holding a small notepad and pen.

Castiel blinks a few times, taking a moment to collect himself from his more surreal thoughts. He nods in greeting. “Hello.”

Her long, dirty-blonde hair drapes over narrow shoulders, framing the round features of her fair face and rosy cheeks. There’s a friendly smile there, bright like the sun, and Castiel can’t help but return the smile.

“I’m Jo, and I’ll be your waitress for the evening, but mostly because I’m currently the only waitress in. You must be the new guy. If you’re looking for a job, we’re in urgent need of a busboy. Just putting that out there.” She laughs, and Castiel can do nothing but clear his throat.

It doesn’t feel awkward, as he had expected. Usually, he’s terrible at conversations, and even worse at making friends. “Castiel,” he says, and holds out a hand. Jo shakes it, and he’s honestly surprised by the strength behind it. He likes her already. “I’ll think that over.”

“What’ll you have, Castiel?”

The name sounds clumsy, but he doesn’t bother correcting her. At least she didn’t answer with the usual ‘what a strange name’.

He fidgets with the coat on his lap. “Um, a menu would be nice.”

Jo turns her head towards the door, looking for something, and then turns back to him with a sigh. “Sorry about that. We usually keep them by the door so customers can take one on the way in, but we’re currently having them ‘refurbished’,” she says, air-quoting. “I can sound off the favorites? Though, really, I suggest the pasties if you want something hearty.”

Castiel stares at the table for a brief moment, thinking back to what Balthazar had said over the phone. “I was told the clam chowder was good.”

“Best in all of Maine.”

“I’ll take a bowl, then.”

“Normal bowl or bread bowl?”

Castiel furrows his eyebrows, having no idea what she means. “Surprise me?”

Jo jots it down on the pad, nodding in approval. “Coke or ice-tea?”

“Coke.”

“Got it. First meal’s on the house, by the way. A little bit of islander hospitality,” she says, knocks twice on the table, and leaves before Castiel can even thank her.

Nice, but weird.

He can already see himself becoming fond of the place.

Pulling out his phone, he discovers a missed call and a text message from Balthazar, saying that he has gotten ‘wrapped up in something’ and that he’ll be a few minutes late. Castiel doesn’t need to look further into it to know that Balthazar has most likely gotten handsy with his boyfriend on the way out.

On a whim, Castiel clears out his call log and checks his emails.

There’s a message from his agent, wishing him the best of luck with the move, and in tiny letters, reminding him that the outline for his next novel is due on Friday. That gives Castiel five days instead of the month he was counting on to come up with a new storyline, or risk getting bumped down the publishing list. He’s in no urgent need of another best-seller, but he needs a deadline to get him going, or else his muse will wither away, unused and bitter.

 _The Endless Divide_ has done well in sales, but a George Orwell-inspired piece is hardly what most people want nowadays. Vampires and badly-written BDSM novels seem to be all the rage, neither of which are C.J. Novak’s area of expertise. There isn’t a romantic bone in his body, which strikes out another popular genre. Young Adult novels had appealed to him at first, but after his editor turned down _Carmine Butterflies_ due to graphic depictions of violence and gore, he had given up on it altogether. It was perfectly okay to publish a book about teenagers slaughtering each other in an arena, but it wasn’t okay for teenagers to murder abusive adults in self-defense.

The rest is all junk mail and invitations to his high school reunion. He deletes them all.

A bell jingling makes Castiel look towards the door, expecting Balthazar to walk in, but instead he sees a man in frayed jeans and leather jacket make his way to a stool, knock twice on the counter, and grin when Jo walks up to him. They exchange quick words, Jo rolling her eyes when he barks out a loud laugh, before she leaves into the kitchen.

_A rugged man walks into a diner, full of bravado and wearing a charming smile. His words are saturated with smooth tones and lilts, voice deep and raspy, nearly a growl that could make any woman swoon. There’s danger in his eyes, a promise for one hell of a wild ride across barren wastelands, hunting creatures from other worlds._

Castiel hums to himself, feeling satisfied with the random paragraph that has popped into his head.

For a moment he entertains the realization that creating stories featuring random people who walk into diners is kind of creepy, but Castiel is aware that his inspiration is best drawn from the living and breathing. These people had lives, worked and ate, fell in love and had sex, how could he _not_ be inspired by them? Especially him: the man with the jeans, the leather jacket and the light-colored hair. His presence begged to be laid down on paper—

No, not beg. Such a being wouldn’t beg. It _demanded_ to be taken to paper, to be developed, written feverishly and devoured eagerly. It was a force, it had a gravity all its own, and it pulled Castiel in so savagely that it left him gasping for air.

Reality smacks into Castiel when he sees the man casually wave at him, and he can feel his face grow hot at the realization that he’s been caught staring. He immediately looks away, wishing he had looked away even a single second earlier, and avoided this embarrassment. Now, he’s going to be known as the new guy who inappropriately stares at people for long periods of time—who inappropriately stares at _other men_ for long periods of time. Shame sinks into his stomach at the thought.

God knows he didn’t mean it that way. Castiel wasn’t looking at him because he was interested, but he knows that people will always assume. Being friends with Balthazar had been the first step in giving them the wrong idea. Castiel may no longer be the same God-fearing man he was six years ago, but he wasn’t homosexual.

The bell rings again, and this time it is Balthazar. Castiel isn’t sure whether to be relieved or horrified.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says by way of greeting, pulling Castiel from his seat and into a tight hug. “Cassie, darling, it’s been too long.”

The entire diner is looking at them, and Castiel wishes they wouldn’t.

“It’s good to see you too,” he says, tersely, as he pats Balthazar’s shoulder with a single hand. Castiel pulls away while giving him a sincere smile, because however awkward, he is genuinely happy to see his friend. “Nice to know you actually decided to show up.”

They take their seats on opposite sides of the table. Balthazar keeps his coat on. “Had a run in with the in-laws. Apparently they’ll be stopping by for Halloween.”

“That’s a month away.”

“Halloween is very serious business to us, I’ll have you know. Do you still bake?”

Castiel shakes his head and says, “It’s been ages, but I’m sure I can still whip something up, given some time.”

Jo comes back with Castiel’s drink and an extra bounce in her step. She sends a smile in Balthazar’s direction, and pats his cheek. It’s as casual a greeting as they come, and Castiel can’t help but marvel at it. “Hey there, mister. The usual?”

“Just a slice of Ellen’s cheesecake, sweetheart. Make it two, for Cassie and I—”

“Cas _tiel_ ,” he corrects, but Balthazar is still talking.

“—Extra whipped cream on the cappuccinos.”

Jo’s eyebrows shoot up past her bangs, but she doesn’t bother holding back her chuckle. “Alrighty. Your clam chowder will be out in a minute,” she says, talking directly to Castiel with a sympathetic look. “Seems like they’re still catching those clams.”

“Small price to pay for quality,” Balthazar says with a nod. “Well worth the wait.”

“I don’t mind,” Castiel says.

“Be right back with both your orders, gentlemen.”

Balthazar tips an invisible hat in her direction, and she waves him off.

“That girl’s a serious champ. Plenty of brains beneath that blonde hair, she would have done wonders in college,” says Balthazar, making Castiel snort. “What? What’s so funny?”

“You’ve gone native.”

“I’ve been here three years, Castiel. With a population of eight hundred, it’s hard to not get to know everyone.”

Removing a straw from its paper sleeve, Castiel places it in his soda and takes a long slurp. “It’s not that. Big time publisher, city-boy all your life… I never could really see you settling down here, of all places. A sunny farm in Arizona, maybe, but not up here.”

Balthazar scratches at the blonde stubble on his chin, and he leans forward, elbows resting on the table. Overhead, drowned out by the chatter in the diner, the music changes from preppy pop to slow country. “Nires is a like a tiny utopia. Unconventional, yes, but… there’s no way to properly explain it. It’s one of those things where you have to witness it yourself. Come Christmas, you’ll be in love with the place. Almost magical.”

“Including the smell of fish?” Castiel knows he sounds condescending, but he can’t help it. He may own a pricey piece of estate, but pull back the seasonal layers and cheery smiles, and it was still a fishing town.

The frown Balthazar gives him is severe enough to make Castiel flinch.

“With that attitude, you should have just stayed in Cali.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel mutters, feeling like an ungrateful jerk. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Yes, you did. You always did have a tendency to speak without filtering your words. Your bluntness makes you a fantastic writer. It’s safe to say that your career can be attributed to that.” He pauses for a moment, and stares out the window. The rain is coming down hard. “It also makes you a dick.”

Castiel glares and sits back just as Jo returns with their orders, and an extra piece of apple pie in tow.

“Here we go,” she says, pulling out two sets of utensils from her apron. “This is bound to help against the cold. And to think, it’s not even October yet.”

The bread bowl Jo mentioned is exactly what the name says. It’s a huge bun, complete with a decently sliced lid, filled with the creamiest clam chowder Castiel has ever seen. The steam warms his nose, and he could melt into the booth. “Oh.”

Jo grins at him. “You haven’t even dug in.”

“We, uh, we didn’t order pie,” Balthazar finally points out, having stared long enough at the flaky-looking piece of pastry topped with whipped cream.

“This is a welcoming gift, courtesy of that jerkface right over there,” Jo says, exaggeratedly waving her hands in the direction of the guy Castiel had been caught staring at.

Castiel’s ears warm, more annoyed than flustered, when the man sends him a wink.

“I can’t accept this,” he says, unwrapping his utensils and glaring down at his bowl made out of bread.

“Let us not be too hasty here,” Balthazar interrupts, tapping the back of Castiel’s hand. “It’s just local hospitality.”

Jo snorts, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “He also says that the bill is on him, so don’t hesitate on eating up.”

“I thought you said that the first meal was on the house?”

“Yeah, but he doesn’t know that, does he?”

Castiel can’t fight back the amusement that bubbles up at that. “Fine. Tell him I said ‘thank you’.”

“Will do.”

Castiel and Balthazar both wait until Jo is out of sight to lean in and have a discreet laugh.

“That was fast. Usually Winchester waits until the second date to pay for someone else’s food,” Balthazar says, slicing off the tip of his cheesecake and swirling it into the cherry syrup. “Hell, I’m surprised he even noticed you.”

“Winchester?”

The clam chowder tastes like paradise wrapped inside heaven in liquid form. It isn’t salty, neither is it too thick, but the balance between home-style cooking and fresh clam at the perfect consistency makes Castiel have second thoughts about living in a fishing town. If all of the food tastes like this, he’s looking forward to gaining a few pounds.

“Dean Winchester,” says Balthazar, humming with amusement at Castiel’s blatant indulgence. “Mechanic, never seen around all that much. He has a tendency to just disappear at times.”

Castiel fishes for a piece of potato. “What do you mean?”

“Rumor says he goes off on ‘business’, something to do with the family. No one’s really sure what. Weird one. Not a single woman he hasn’t slept with, and a few guys as well, apparently.”

Chancing a look, Castiel is relieved to find Dean talking to a woman behind the counter. He quickly looks away, not wanting to be caught again. “Mysterious mechanic with a Don Juan complex,” he says, popping the spoon into his mouth.

“He’s bad news, Castiel.”

The words sound like a warning, and when Castiel looks up to stare Balthazar in the eye, he realizes that that’s exactly what they are.

“And this concerns me, how?”

“Keep yourself low-key, is all I’m saying. You’re the new guy, people are going to be wary for a while. Don’t give them reason to talk for siding with the wrong crowd,” he says with a shrug, taking a sip from his coffee. “I can introduce you to some friends of mine, if you want.”

Castiel can feel his eyebrow twitch. He’s not stupid, and it’s easy to pick up on what Balthazar really means by that. Balthazar’s insistence that Castiel is a closet bisexual has been an argument that has raged since day one, when he had come on to Castiel far too strong. Castiel had humored him at first, being secure enough with his sexuality to not be offended when gay men flirted with him. But the shit hit the fan when Castiel allowed Balthazar’s hand to linger on his ass a second too long, solidifying the man’s so-called theories.

Seven years later, Castiel still doesn’t know why he didn’t pull away.

“Have you ever slept with him?” The question is out before Castiel can think better of it, and he looks out the window while waiting for the answer.

He can feel Balthazar’s eyes on him when he says, “I have something called self-respect, thank you very much. Ralph and I have been steady for over two years.”

“I was just curious.”

The next time Castiel looks in Dean's direction—after having put away the entire clam chowder (and what remained of the bowl), a small cheesecake, and a slice of pie—he is long gone.

•••

The attic window creaks when Castiel closes it, but it isn’t as grating as he thought it would be. While the house remains solemn and frozen in its remodeled state, he’s happy with that little blemish in its hinges.

Books have been sorted into genres, alphabetically. The picture frames over the fireplace have been filled with memories of a past life, most of them hosting sunny days and sandy beaches. His albums have been stacked above the stereo, old vinyl records in their original sleeves, in mint condition.

He’s put the boxes with his outdoor summer furniture outside. From there he can see the seaside just a short distance away, both towering oaks standing like beacons, and the stone path that leads to the white and red lighthouse.

A week’s gone by, and he can officially lean back and say that he’s settled in.

The cat still has no name.

Castiel considers taking his laptop up to the lighthouse, but then thinks better of it. The water is unsettled, and he can’t risk getting the old thing wet, not when he’s yet to backup his more recent files. Besides, brainstorming a plot doesn’t require fancy equipment, and with his current attention span, Castiel would most likely waste away his time playing solitaire. So instead, he takes his drafting notebook with lineless pages, and two pens.

He crosses his front yard, inhaling the sharp smell of recent rain as it soaks into cold sand. The fallen leaves crunch underneath his moccasins as he passes the banks of sloping rock, layers of soft sand cut at an angle to the rest of the watery beach.

The path is narrow and slippery with algae, the masonry wasted away by the punishing waves, where wooden planks have been ripped away by a severe storm and lack of maintenance. It’s more or less impossible to keep to the center, and Castiel slips twice, both times taken over by absolute fear of falling into the sea, his heart thumping in his chest.

As he finds his balance again, he lets out a relieved exhale, at long last reaching the tiny man-made island. As he goes to rest his back against the old structure, he looks up to find that the light isn’t working. The door’s hinges are rusted and decayed, and the walls groan when he taps his fist against their exterior. Exploring the lighthouse can wait until later.

He sits on the ledge of the island, the soles of his shoes just a few feet away from the water’s surface.

Writing might be an impossible task here, he thinks, still rapt with the beauty of this particular landscape.

The rocks that defend the shoreline not ten feet away from his house are black and jagged, like volcanic stone. The gray of the watery view is sharp against the orange and yellow of his yard, mixing like a surreal painting.

Wind whips his hair, and stings his eyes. He licks his lips and is unsurprised by how salty they taste. All his life he lived close to the Pacific Ocean, but not once did he consider sitting by its shore to appreciate it. It’s different here, the air is colder and harsher, the surroundings so very divergent despite the similar elements of water and sky.

Castiel resigns himself to being lost to it all.

He opens his notebook and draws random circles on the corner of a page.

There’s no definitive connection between his character of the rugged man and the sea, but he’s sure he can find it soon enough. Maybe a watery grave, or maybe the creature he’s looking for emerges from the depths…

He’ll find it.

Castiel doesn’t know what he’s looking for within the water, but he’s certain that he’ll find it.

•••

It’s late September when Castiel finally decides to humor Balthazar.

After three canceled Skype appointments with his agent, ten frustrated phone calls between himself and his sister, two dozen ripped pages and a bottle of vodka, Castiel thinks he needs a change of atmosphere.

All he can do is draw and stare off into the distance, count the dried trees, and clip the cat’s claws. Lack of inspiration isn’t the problem; too much of it is leaving him stumped.

However, this marks the last time Castiel will ever believe anything Balthazar says.

The heavy pounding of the bass makes his pulse jump along to the slow, drawn-out and sensual rhythm of the song. Out on the dance floor, a mob of people all swing and bump and grind in a mess of limbs, aided by sweat and alcohol. The smell of indiscretion and promiscuity swirls and slides across the edge of Castiel’s nose like a snake, tempting him into the first arms willing to hold.

“I loathe you!” Castiel yells over the blaring music, squinting when a neon spotlight swipes across their table, which lies nestled in the VIP area. They’re well hidden from wandering eyes, but they have a plentiful view of both the dance floor and the bar.

He had agreed to a night out in town, dinner at a fancy restaurant with some of Balthazar’s friends.

A nightclub had never been mentioned.

“Relax, will you? Live a little,” Balthazar yells directly into Castiel’s ear.

Castiel mumbles and knocks back a shot. He’s aware that he’s had a few too many, but the sweet aftertaste and the burn going down feels good.

Their table was procured by one of Balthazar’s friends having called in a couple of favors earlier that day. Crowley, the Scotsman dressed in a pristine suit that is most likely worth more than Castiel’s higher education, flaunts his connections. He also keeps filling up Castiel’s glass with top shelf bourbon.

“The night is young, Castiel,” Crowley purrs, an impressive feat due to the booming music. “Loosen up that tie, mate, because it’s going to be a long one.”

Castiel does his best to avoid him after that.

Dick Roman, another of Balthazar’s colleagues, is a corporate asshole. While Castiel appreciates his disinterest, the condescending ‘Donald Trump has nothing on me’ speeches make him want to kindly tell him to go fuck himself.

It was vengeance for not calling Miss Carter when he was told to.

Castiel excuses himself for the sake of a bathroom break.

The song changes into one with a quicker tempo, Castiel’s heart rattled by bass-induced palpitations. The music grows louder and louder, and the floor beneath his feet rises and falls to the beat of the bodies moving like a single organism. Multi-colored lights strobe and thin artificial mist clouds his vision in the already dark building.

Loosening the knot on his tie, he tries for deep and even breaths as he stumbles and pushes himself through the throng of casual club goers who don’t take to the floor, but still stand by the sidelines, swaying along to the honey-smooth beat of the song.

The walls around Castiel spin in a mix of colors and sounds, the mass of people all moving trance-like to a single beat, a conglomeration of veins fueling a single heart. It all twirls and pulses, jams against his temples and makes him trip.

He feels like running, falling, and puking. There’s heaviness in his stomach, a hint of disorientation and the feeling that he doesn’t want to be here.

He feels hot, like a simmering flame is being held just underneath his skin, but he’s breaking out in cold sweat. Knees weak, confused, and buzzed, Castiel fears he’ll keel over at any given second.

He’s forced to take a moment, leaning against the first wall he finds that is as far away from the speakers and lights as possible. Without thinking better of it, ignoring the bodies pressing against his side, he undoes the first two buttons of his shirt.

Claustrophobia sets in, making Castiel feel trapped, his lungs struggling for air. The alcohol burns in his veins.

It’s nightmarish, like drowning.

“You okay there, buddy?”

Castiel tries to wave the person off. “I’m fine,” he wheezes, but he’s sure that the words that came out of his mouth didn’t sound like that at all. Concentrating on speech will only increase the need to vomit.

A hand on his shoulder straightens him up, and Castiel can feel the blood rushing from his face, leaving him feeling unbalanced and cold. He feels lightheaded, and he’s starting to feel clammy.

“Fine? You look like you’re about to hurl.”

Castiel doesn’t understand what’s happening, but his feet are moving. There’s a hand on his elbow that leads him through the crowd, and bliss settles over Castiel when the music is drowned out considerably. There are now walls and a door separating him from the noise inside the club.

Before he can think better of it, Castiel is shoving a bathroom stall open and retching into a toilet bowl.

He remembers this feeling, but he can’t pinpoint from when. There’s cold sweat beading on his forehead, and his body is trembling from exhaustion, as if he’s run a marathon. No one should blame him for the whimper that escapes his mouth.

“I suggest you cut back on the Orgasms for the rest of the night,” the person who helped him so helpfully says, amusement saturating his words. “Here’s to hoping you aren’t anyone’s designated driver.”

Castiel moans, struggling to his feet. He feels like shit.

He doesn’t deign the man with an answer, only flushes the toilet, then stiltedly walks over to the sinks to splash water over his face. Rinsing out his mouth, he stares up at the ceiling and shuts his eyes, vertigo making his stomach churn some more.

He stays there for what feels like minutes, waiting for his body to stabilize. Blood slowly rushes back to his face, and he can finally feel his fingers again. When he trusts his voice enough to speak, Castiel mutters a “Thank you.”

“Don’t sweat it.”

Castiel looks himself over in the mirror, and grimaces at what he sees. The sickly paleness of his face is the least of his worries. “Oh.”

“‘Oh’ yourself, stranger,” says Dean Winchester, leaning against the ledge of the sinks, hands casually stuck in his jeans’ pockets. He isn’t grinning like he was that day in the diner, but there’s mirth swimming in his sharp green eyes.

Or it could just be the alcohol speaking.

“I’m sorry you had to witness that,” says Castiel, running water over his eyes and taking deep breaths. “I’ve always been terrible at introductions.”

Dean laughs at that, shifting his feet. “Could have been worse. I mean, you could have puked on my shoes.”

“That would have been unfortunate, yes.”

“Dean,” he says, and holds out his hand. “At your service.”

Castiel stares at the outstretched hand and wipes his own dry on his suit, before reaching out to shake it. “Castiel. It’s a pleasure.”

“Sorry I didn’t properly introduce myself that day, was kinda in a hurry,” says Dean, squeezing Castiel’s hand, good and firm.

His hand is sweaty, Castiel notes, almost as a side-thought. “It’s all right, thank you for, you know, paying my bill.” Castiel’s words are slurred and he knows it, but there isn’t much he can do about it. All he wants is to go home and sleep for the next couple of days.

“Least I can do.” Dean pushes away and walks towards the door, where he stops and waits for Castiel to follow. “Come on.”

“Huh?”

“I’m gonna get you a glass of water.”

“Oh,” Castiel answers unintelligently. It takes him a moment to react, to think about anything, but there’s red yarn wrapped around the faucet, and it’s taken up all of his attention. He’s seen it before, but he can’t remember where.

A wave of cold dread weaves itself around his heart, squeezing wickedly, enough to make him feel fainter.

It’s a coincidence, he decides, and leaves it at that.

Castiel braces himself when Dean opens the door.

The music doesn’t sound half as loud, and Castiel feels himself sag with relief.

The crowd makes way when Dean slings an arm around his shoulders, as if they’ve been friends for years, and Castiel doesn’t have it in him to protest. He should, but he doesn’t. It’s the most ridiculous thought ever, but Castiel feels safe. There’s comfort, along with the underlying curiosity that Dean is the one behind the lowered volume and the calming buzz in his blood. Silly, yes, but a strange part of Castiel likes to think so.

They make it to the bar without incident, and Dean guides Castiel down on a stool. He orders a glass of water for him and a glass of Jack for himself. They don’t talk while they wait for their respective drinks, but Dean keeps staring at Castiel strangely, like he’s trying to figure something out. It makes Castiel uncomfortable, but not enough to ask him to stop.

It feels like Dean is sizing him up, his eyes gleaming gold in the neon lights.

He edges closer, his side warming up Castiel’s as he leans in to talk directly into his ear. “How do you like Nires so far?” It’s a casual question, but Castiel can sense tension in his words.

If it’s sex Dean is looking for, then he’s barking up the wrong tree.

“Pleasant,” Castiel says, mindful to not face Dean when he speaks. He reckons his breath smells putrid. “The people here are friendly.”

“That we are,” and Dean’s breath is hot against Castiel’s ear.

He instinctively pulls away, but Dean chuckles and pulls him back, settling a hand on Castiel’s hip.

The blue and purple strobe lights sweep away, casting the bar into dim darkness. Castiel gasps the moment Dean’s forehead touches his temple, and he can no longer control his inebriated self when he turns to stare at Dean with newfound heat. Castiel doesn’t want sex, but he’d like a taste of those plump lips. Dean’s scent, the musk of his cologne, is enough to make Castiel go weak at the knees.

“Look, I’m sorry Dean, but I don’t—”

“Jack ‘n the water,” interrupts the bartender, giving them both an eyebrow wiggle at the innuendo. “Is there anything else I can get you two?”

The lights swing right back, and Castiel is forced to squint at the glass being offered to him.

“I’ll let you know, Bill,” Dean says with a wink, then turns right back to Castiel. “Bottoms up, Cas.”

_Cas._

Castiel stares at the cubes of ice floating in his glass before swallowing down half the glassful at once. It feels wonderfully soothing against his raw throat.

The hand on his hip begins to knead, and Castiel’s body becomes conflicted. There’s a churning competition battling it out somewhere between his stomach, chest, and groin, where he’s not sure whether to puke or burrow into the heat of the body next to him. It feels as if two different ends of time and space are dragging apart and trying to rip him right down the middle, so he just freezes and refuses to move.

But it doesn’t feel _internal_.

It would be easy to blame the alcohol for the sensation, but Castiel is perturbed that no matter how wasted, it should be impossible to feel like his body is literally being pulled in opposite directions. Emotionally, physically, and spiritually.

Dean inches close enough that it’s almost an embrace. There’s a thread of intimacy that makes Castiel want to melt into it. He wants, needs, thirsts for the heat that’s glowing in the pit of his stomach, asking him to stay and indulge in it. It’s soothing and all-consuming all at once, and all Castiel has to do is surrender.

Picking up strangers at nightclubs has never been his thing, but he’s this close to making the exception tonight, especially when Dean’s available hand begins a playful trek up the inside of his thigh.

An arm rudely shoves between them, wrenching away the feeling of relief so suddenly that Castiel is left choking on his water.

Balthazar pushes in between them with a forced laugh, patting Castiel’s back and asking the bartender for a bottle of water.

The mixture of feelings are gone, like a switch has been flipped, and Castiel is left feeling a ‘normal’ kind of sick for entirely different reasons.

“Well if it ain’t the magi,” Dean greets, and even with the music, Castiel can hear the annoyance.

“Winchester! I’d say it’s nice to see you again, but, you know how it is.” Balthazar drapes his arm over Castiel’s shoulder and ruffles his hair. “I see that you’ve met Castiel. Properly, this time.”

“Well, y'know. He's kind of a lightweight, if you ask me, but...” Dean shrugs nonchalantly.

The most grating part, Castiel finds, is that Dean doesn’t look at him at all.

Balthazar gives a closed-mouth chuckle, but doesn’t reply.

Dean keeps talking. “I’d keep a real close eye on him if I were you.” Green eyes finally land on Castiel, and he can’t help but shiver at the force behind them. “New guy; never know who or what wants to take advantage of him.”

The atmosphere is too tense for Castiel to properly think. A threat feels palpable, along with a chilling aura that sets his hair on end.

“I’ll get him a guard dog,” Balthazar says, but his back is stiff where it’s pressed along Castiel’s side. “See you around, Winchester.”

Dean frowns and sets his glass on the table. “Sure thing,” he says sourly. He turns to Castiel with a slow grin. “Catch you later, Cas.”

Castiel's head gestures in a way he hopes Dean will interpret as farewell. He hates to see him go, but he figures it’s for the best. He’s in no way capable of handling an altercation right now.

“I want to go home,” Castiel says the moment Dean is out of sight, and he’s dragged by the arm before he can even register it.

The air outside the club feels like the flat of a cold knife pressing to every inch of his skin, since he left his coat back at their table. He’s shivering by the time Balthazar stops walking, far enough for the bouncers to be out of hearing range.

“Are you insane?”

“W-What?” Castiel barks defensively through chattering teeth. If he stays out too long, he’ll end up losing his limbs to frostbite.

“Of all people to get all… all _snuggly_ with, you stumble across him?”

“I wasn’t snuggling.”

“You weren’t—Christ, Castiel, you two were practically rubbing one off!”

Castiel’s cheeks flare with embarrassment. He still doesn’t know what the hell possessed him in there, and he’s too frightened to even think about it. In a way he’s grateful for the stinging cold, for it helped sober him up.

“I think my blood-sugar levels dropped on the way to the bathroom. He gave me a hand, that’s all.” Castiel blinks and quickly adds, “Not like that, Balthazar. You know for a fact that I’m not interested in…” He drops the sentence immediately, shame making his stomach clench.

The night around them is restless and empty, despite the few people making their way inside the club. It’s also quiet enough to render any silence between them awkward.

“Not this conversation again,” Balthazar says, walking back and forth before standing stock-still. “How many bloody times do I have to say this? It’s been years, Castiel.”

“Then why are you being so defensive?”

Balthazar laughs, his breath coming out in a puff of mist. “You think I’m jealous.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“I figured. You always were so full of yourself, I swear.” He closes in on Castiel, his voice low and honey-sweet as he says his next sentence slowly. “I am only trying to defend your honor, princess. Because unlike you, I actually pay attention to the important aspects of our camaraderie.”

Castiel is shivering where he stands, staring hard at his friend. There are so many things he could say, a dozen ways he can retort, but in the end he’s feeling too unbalanced to be witty. “I want to go home.” And after a moment, “I’m in no condition to drive.”

The conversation is over, and Balthazar steps back. “I’ll call you a cab.”

“I’d rather walk.” His tone is as cold as the night around them, but he doesn’t give a damn.

“Stay here, I’ll fetch you your coat.”

Balthazar continues to prove himself as the best friend anyone could have.

The cold may be unbearable, but Castiel is grateful for the burn it triggers on his skin. This he can feel, it’s palpable, as opposed to the freak-sensations that had manifested a few minutes ago. He’s disturbed by how unnatural it felt, and considers telling Balthazar about it.

He decides not to, not yet, or risk being called a nutjob. Once again.

Balthazar exits the club bearing Castiel’s coat, a scarf, and a pair of gloves. Castiel wonders briefly who the scarf and gloves belong to, since they certainly aren't his own. Still, he makes sure to rub his hands together before slipping them on.

“Are you sure you want to walk? It’ll probably take you about an hour. Temperature’s bound to drop by the time you get there.”

“I’ll live,” Castiel says, buttoning up his coat and turning up his collar, making sure to cover his ears. “The cold will clear my mind.”

Balthazar nods once, before patting Castiel’s cheek. “All right. Call me the moment you get there. Be careful.”

“I’ll refrain from talking to strangers.”

Balthazar snorts. “Smartass.”

Castiel double-checks to see if his wallet and phone are in his pockets, waves at Balthazar, and then walks out into the night without sparing the nightclub a second glance.

The streets are empty and wet. The moon is hidden behind dark clouds, and the only source of light comes from the old-looking street lamps that line the sidewalks, making the puddles of water shine orange. Oaks and pines sway in the wind, needles falling and tangling on the mop of Castiel’s hair.

He shoves his gloved hands into his pockets, and thinks.

There is no possible way for him to remember when the last time he felt like that was. He only knows that he _has_ felt that way before. He remembers the twisting knots, the slight squeezing of his trachea and the panic that came with it. He thinks back to the red yarn wrapped around the faucet, how it was only on the one he had used. It could be a coincidence, just a heads-up that it leaked, perhaps. But Castiel knows better.

He walks a little faster.

Paranoia is an ugly thing. He never would have considered leaving San Francisco if not for it.

For years the feeling of someone watching him just beyond a fence had made him feel ill. It was a constant game where he thought that, while inside his house, the shadows were trying to reach for him, licking the edges of his shoes whenever he walked by. Meanwhile, outside, something was always waiting for him. There was never any proof of either phenomenon, and his therapist would insist that it was nothing more than a severe case of PTSD.

PTSD doesn’t choke you in your sleep; it doesn’t leave bruises around your neck the morning after.

Too many times did Castiel wake with the feeling of hands around his throat, desperately trying to wring the life out of him. Too many times did he doze off in the bathtub, sinking to the bottom only to realize that he couldn’t resurface until the very last moment.

He had grown obsessed with trying to find an explanation for it, because it didn’t matter what his therapist said, these things were as real as the air he breathes.

Psychics gave him protection trinkets, while priests blessed him, but nothing seemed to keep those nightmares away like his medications. He had fought tooth and nail against Dr. Visyak, insisting that he didn’t need them, that he couldn’t afford to dull his senses when he had a book to write.

But then Castiel reached the point where he realized he couldn’t function unless he took them.

Two weeks of rehab later, Castiel had been forced to search for his own aid.

Last year, it had been too much.

Balthazar tells him that he had called every phone he knew, had searched the house top to bottom, spoke to neighbors and family alike. In the end, it was his brother, Gabriel, who had found him in some alley, in the same clothing he was last seen in two days prior.

Castiel had begged Balthazar to get him a place as far away as possible.

To say that he’s proud for being sober these past five months is a lie, because his kit is still in an unpacked box. The pills are in his kitchen drawer, and the unused syringes are stored in the bathroom, behind his shaving cream.

It’s been a good couple of weeks, where nothing has bothered him. Aside from the eerie silence that had seemed to walk into his house the day he moved in, the place has been warm and welcoming. Even the cat sleeps at the foot of his bed. As long as nothing disturbs him, there is no need to turn back to the drugs. He never needed them for anything else.

When he gets home, with his toes and fingers thankfully intact, he double-locks the door and draws all of the curtains. He sets the alarm and removes his coat, draping it unceremoniously over the couch.

He stops by the bathroom to relieve himself, wash his hands and brush his teeth, knowing he’ll still wake up with a terrible taste in his mouth.

Once in bed, he texts Balthazar to let him know that he’s alive, and it’s the last time he has any contact with him for the next month.


	3. The Dark

It’s the second week of October, and Castiel only has a vague outline of what he wants in his next story. No plot, just a list of characters and their incentives. Due to time constraints, the story will have to develop on Earth, because creating another world for it to take place will consume at least another month, one he doesn’t have.

Honestly, he wouldn’t have changed these last few weeks for the world.

Boredom and lack of motivation led him to try something new, namely recipes. He spent his time expanding his repertoire of ‘Things Castiel Novak Can Bake’, and wondering if he could, maybe someday, write a cookbook.

His next big project, thanks to Halloween being just around the corner, requires pumpkins, and plenty of them. Pumpkin cake, pumpkin pie, chocolate and pumpkin cookies, a soufflé, and everything else that can be made out of pumpkin. It’s a welcome distraction.

Nires’ market is a strange place, and its visitors are even stranger.

It’s another tourist trap that stands between the docks and the edge of the forest, just a five minute drive, once off the main road. Massive cliffs line both sides of the basin and cut steeply into the ocean, making it a scenic treasure trove for travel photographers. While the sandy parking lot and the wide wedges between the boardwalk’s planks look dangerous, it adds a hint of charm (and uneasiness as Castiel tries to avoid tripping on any of them) that screams ‘weathered and worn, but still homely’.

On one side, the sun shines upon the fishermen’s catch of the morning; endless rows of bass, lobsters, crabs, and even shrimp, all set up on ice, atop colorful wooden kiosks. The sea breeze fails to take away the pungent smell of the market, its saltiness only adding to the crude smell of fresh fish under a sunny sky. 

It isn’t what Castiel is looking for, but he figures it wouldn’t hurt to have a look.

He ends up with two pounds of shrimp, and a local stir-fry recipe.

The farmers’ side is just as hectic, not to mention as colorful. Squash, carrots, celery, red onions, yellow onions, potatoes, capers, garlands of garlic whose intention looks to be fending off vampires. It’s absurd, Castiel thinks, as he picks his way through crates of bell peppers.

He’s wondering exactly how he’ll manage to get all of these things back to his car, when someone bumps into his shoulder, making him drop a red pepper.

“Watch it. Some of us are trying to shop here.”

“My apo—” The word dies away when Castiel is met with a once familiar face. “Meg?”

Meg Masters, former high school classmate, and the girl with whom he had been locked up in Roger’s basement with for twenty minutes after a game of spin the bottle.

“I’ll be damned. Heya Clarence.”

They stand in awkward silence, both of them looking at anything but each other, until Meg finally gets out a laugh. “Aw, show a girl some love, will you?”

Castiel cracks a smile and brings her into a tight hug, nearly lifting her smaller frame off the ground. “It’s so good to see you again.”

“Of all places, too. What the hell are you doing all the way up here, Mr. New York Times Best-Seller?” She steps away but keeps him within arm’s reach, her hands holding onto his elbows. “You’re a long way from San Fran.”

Scratching the back of his head, Castiel looks for a short version to tell. “Moved up here about a month ago. My muse required a change of scenery.”

“Oh, so it’s one of those writer mumbo-jumbo things, huh?”

“In a way. How about you? The last time I saw you, we were wearing a toga and marching down John Jay’s auditorium.”

“I traveled,” Meg says, her cheeks looking too pink for Castiel to decipher if it’s make-up, the cold, the sun, or a blush. “Had to shake off those school years; find myself, you know?”

Castiel smiles, and it’s the first time he’s felt happy in a long time. “Do you live here?”

“Nah, just visiting a friend of mine.” Her grin is as devilish as it was all those years ago, and Castiel lingers in the warm brush of nostalgia inside his chest.

Dark hair falls way past her shoulders, blending into the black of her jacket. It accents the paleness of her skin and her dark eyes, making her round face glow. She’s even lovelier than she was back then.

“In that case, let me treat you to some coffee. I know a nice diner in town, best pancakes you’ll ever have this side of the US.”

Meg bites her bottom lip, more to hold back a laugh than anything, but the flirtation is so obvious that even Castiel picks up on it. “You don’t have to, handsome,” she says, and sobers up, fixing the flap of his jacket. “I heard about what happened. I’m so sorry.”

Castiel feels nothing. Not the ‘numb’ sort of nothing, where he blocks out all unwanted emotions, but he truly doesn’t feel a thing. There’s no pain or bitterness, no anger and despair. The thought of ‘you can’t change the past’ is ever present at that moment, and he feels okay. He can genuinely nod, smile, and say that he’s okay.

“Tomorrow at eight. Meet me in front of the maritime museum and I’ll drive us the rest of the way,” and he marvels at the level tone of his own voice.

Meg moves in and Castiel jumps, taken off-guard by the hand that’s suddenly on his ass. She pulls away, shaking his phone in front of him. “Old habits die hard, I see.”

The amount of keys he’d lost that way during their years studying together borders on unbelievable.

He watches as she fiddles with both phones, before handing him his back. “There, I have your number and you have mine. Be sure to give me a call if there’s ever anything you need.”

Her voice lowers at the ‘anything’ and Castiel clears his throat, turning to stare hard at the red peppers. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I’ll leave you to your shopping,” she says, and promptly disappears into the swirling crowd.

Castiel is rooted to the spot, phone in hand, feeling completely dumbfounded. Of all the things to have expected, that was definitely not one of them. He huffs out a laugh and runs a hand over his face.

“Not to be nosey or anything, but the girl has trouble rolling off her in waves, brother,” says a man behind the table, sipping loudly from a pouch of juice. He smiles at Castiel the way a tiger would smile at a rabbit.

“I appreciate your input,” Castiel says, drenching his words with as much sarcasm as possible.

Moving over to the pumpkins, he hears the man say something about it coming back and biting him on the ass. Talk about rude.

Ten minutes later, Castiel regrets not having parked his car closer to the market. He has to make three trips thanks to the humongous size of the pumpkins and the amount of produce he’s purchased, and by the last one, a helpful hand comes out of the blue.

“That’s the second time I’ve had to come in to your rescue.”

Castiel misses a step, the tip of his shoe jamming on the wedge between two planks when the weight of a pumpkin is removed from his left hand, and he blinks up at Dean, who’s easily propping it up on his shoulder.

The way the sun hits him makes his hair shine a pale brown, and the green of his eyes sparkle like liquid honey. For the first time, Castiel can see the spray of freckles, barely visible, across his nose and cheeks.

Defensively, Castiel snorts. “I’m starting to think that you’re stalking me.”

Dean grins and shrugs, taking large strides and gently placing the pumpkin in Castiel’s trunk. He’s bow-legged, Castiel notices, and instantly thinks that it’ll be an unforgettable trait for his still-nameless protagonist.

“It’s a small island. I’m surprised we haven’t bumped into each other more often.” After Castiel sets the last of the bags beside his pumpkins, Dean does him the favor of closing the trunk.

“Work has been keeping me busy,” Castiel lies, although it isn’t exactly a lie. He _should_ be working, but it’s not his fault that his concentration won't stick.

“You’re a chef?”

Castiel chuckles at that and leans against the trunk. Then he furrows his eyebrows, wondering why he’s even getting comfortable for a conversation with the shady stranger who keeps popping up at peculiar times. “I’m a writer. Cooking’s more of a hobby. One I take too seriously, but a hobby nonetheless.”

“Published writer or…?”

“Maybe.”

“Novel, magazine—?”

“What is this, twenty questions?”

Dean holds his hands up in the universal sign of surrender. “Didn’t mean to pry.” He’s smiling, and his teeth are perfectly straight and noticeably white. Castiel would bet that his breath is minty fresh, too.

“My turn,” Castiel says, digging the heels of his boots into the grass. “What do you do for a living?”

“Best damn mechanic the Northeast has ever seen.”

“Is that so?”

“Everyone says I’m good with my hands.” Castiel looks away with a smirk when Dean crosses his arms and stands straighter, chin up and feet apart. “What’s so funny?”

“Are you seriously flirting with me?” It’s the stupidest question Castiel has ever asked.

Dean’s posture is smug and inviting, his tone playful and gruff. “Maybe.”

“Ah.”

“I’m totally wasting my time, aren’t I?”

Castiel fidgets with the buttons of his jacket. He doesn’t know how to answer, exactly. While he’s not interested in other men, he enjoys Dean’s attention. It would be a lie to say that he wasn’t good looking, as well.

“Maybe,” he says, mimicking Dean’s response. He shouldn’t be flirting back, but he can’t help himself.

“Fair enough.”

There’s a beat of awkward silence, where Dean shuffles his feet while Castiel scratches at his neck.

“I should probably get going. Things aren’t going to get baked themselves.”

“All right,” Dean says, reaching for his jacket pocket and pulling out a card. “If your car ever gives you any trouble, just give me a call.”

Castiel takes it. “You’ll be the first on the list.”

“I’ll see you around, Cas.”

Another moment of silence makes itself known before Castiel scrambles off the trunk and into the driver’s seat. He can hear Dean chuckling even after he’s turned up the radio and buckled up his seatbelt.

Castiel writes it off as the sun’s glare, but while driving off, he is certain that Dean’s eyes flash gold in the rearview mirror.

•••

Anna calls that evening while Castiel checks up on his pie. He’s surprised to see his sister’s name on the screen, and he greets her with all of the joy little brothers hold for older sisters.

“You would like it here,” he says, sitting on top of the counter and leafing through his bills. “Perfect weather most of the time—when it’s not unleashing heaven’s floodgates, that is.”

_“Perfect cuddling weather?”_

“More like perfect for sleeping. I can’t sit at the computer for thirty minutes when I’m already starting to doze off.”

_“Speaking of, how’s that story coming along?”_

Castiel sighs and puts down the envelopes. “I’ve got something, I think. Nothing concrete. Zachariah wants a full synopsis in three days or I’m out of the house.”

_“Probably it’s the stress that’s getting to you.”_

“Yeah, maybe.”

 _“Listen, I visited Mom and Dad the other day, and we were thinking…”_ Castiel braces himself for it, because he knows he’s not going to like what she says next. _“Thanksgiving dinner should be over at your place.”_

Obviously.

“Anna—”

 _“Michael and Gabriel agree._ Michael _agrees, Cas. Do you even remember when the last time we were all together was?”_

“Wasn’t it Gabriel’s graduation?”

_“Exactly. It would be nice to have a get-together, don’t you think so? Make the place feel like home.”_

Castiel feels bitter. The house he shared with his family had never been a home. He never knew what a home was until he met his late wife.

“Stress is definitely getting to me, now.”

_“Oh, hush. It’s still a month away.”_

Pinching the bridge of his nose, his shoulders sag in defeat. “Okay, I guess it’s fine.”

The conversation ends shortly after.

He doesn’t bother making dinner, so he shoves the shrimp into the freezer and eats a slice of his pie. Too much cinnamon.

All stored energy has been zapped by the time the conversation ended, and there’s nothing he can do about that. Drinking a cup of coffee, he does his usual rounds around the house. It’s early, but he figures he could use the rest. Tomorrow he’ll be up early to make himself presentable for his breakfast date.

Emptying a pâté into the cat’s bowl, he leaves her to her dinner while he makes his way upstairs. Dishes can wait until he’s returned tomorrow. Pulling out some clean boxers and a shirt, he makes for the bathroom. Usually, he doesn’t bathe before bed, but tonight he’s feeling indulgent.

Castiel draws a shallow bath and sinks in, leaving the showerhead still pouring water into the frothy bubbles. He melts into the tub as the hot water curls its way around him, working on relaxing his muscles. He shivers with pleasure, and stills when the water reaches his shoulders, wetting the bottom of his hair. He wiggles his toes, then just lies there, taking deep breaths and willing his mind to blank.

Instead, he finds himself thinking about his story. The rugged bounty hunter who hops from bar to bar, searching for information, any lead that will take him to the villain who lives in the ocean. It sounds silly, but with a handful of good plot points, he’s certain he can make it work.

He then focuses on the water, on its heat seeping into the most intimate places of his body, soothing him to a far more tranquil state. He shifts when his leg starts to cramp up, and the small current that rushes past his scrotum makes him tremble. Knocking his knees apart, he feels the hot water plunge against him, drifting in soft, thin streams against the lower part of his body. He sinks an inch lower, so the surface of the water laps against his stubble.

By the time he looks down, his cock is hard, the tip breaking the surface and dragging some of the bubbles until they slide down the engorged length. He gasps, accidentally bucking up as the water from above pelts down on him. He thinks about wrapping a hand around it, giving it a few jerks and be over with it, but the random patterns of the showerhead feel obscenely good so he sits back and lets it be.

His abstinence, at first, had been out of respect, a kind of mourning. The thought of sexual intercourse had made him feel ill, until one night a year later. The woman had been a friend, and after a few dinner dates, the clothes had started falling off. Castiel left twenty minutes later, unable to even become aroused by it.

He hasn’t bothered trying since that day. It’s been six years since he’s had a partner, but that’s not to say that his hand has been out of commission. Arousal has been inconsistent, so he’s taken care of it whenever the need struck.

Castiel lets his finger trace up his thigh and tug at the wiry curls, before dragging his fingertips up to toy with his nipples.

Sexual prowess has never been something attributed to him, but he knows exactly what he likes and how he likes it. True, even his wildest fantasies could be branded as vanilla, but it wasn’t like he was going to act on those desires anytime soon.

His head knocks against the edge of the tub, mouth open in a quiet moan when he finally wraps his fist around the base of his cock, jerking it quickly. The bathroom fills with his controlled cries, the water splashing when he finally reaches orgasm.

Castiel sinks down again, groaning at the bone-deep satisfaction that courses through him. It has been far too long, and he’s not sure what got him going so easily, but he’s thankful for the relief.

He should get up, properly get himself washed and head to bed, but his limbs feel like jelly, and he can’t be bothered to move just yet.

His last thoughts are something about cinnamon, before sleep takes over.

_Castiel dreams._

_The night is silent as he walks along the desolate shoreline, toes sinking into cool sand as water laps at the hem of his pants. He’s dressed in white, the fabric is raw silk, and instead of itching, it feels good against his skin._

_In front of him is a trail of broken seashells, their colors vibrant in the moonlight as he follows, careful to not disturb them._

_One, two, three, four—_

_Go along and open the door._

_Over and over again, he repeats the words like a hypnotizing mantra, pounding in his head along to the cadence of drums._

_Let it free, oh Lord!_

_Go along and open the door!_

_Castiel runs. He runs towards the fire he hears crackling in the distance. It’s a fire he can’t see, or smell, but he hears it growling, ferociously devouring and cleansing the shore with its all-consuming power._

_One, two, three, four—_

_Go along and open the door._

_The words are still coming, but he no longer has a voice. Someone speaks for him, someone has taken his breath; but it’s there, just over the horizon, the fire._

_But something else calls to him. There’s another force, beckoning him with raw intensity._

_Let it free, oh Lord!, his own voice screams, but his mouth isn’t open, it’s his voice but it’s not him._

_Let it free, oh Lord!_

_The fire is calling, but he turns to face the force tugging at his hands. Castiel turns to the lulling voice whispering his name as if it were sacred._

_He turns to the sea._

_But he’s drowning—_

Castiel’s eyes snap open and finds that he’s underwater, chest burning with the need to breathe. Panic sets in when he finds that he can’t break the surface, that he can’t sit up in his bathtub. Something keeps him down; he can feel the pressure on his shoulders, pulling at his ankles to stop him from moving.

His hands flail, trying to grip the ledge, anything that can give him enough leverage to yank himself from the water. He tries kicking the plug, let the water drain out, but he misses time and time again.

Lungs aching, eyes bursting with flashes, Castiel can no longer think. He screams, his mouth filling with soapy water until he’s finally released from the invisible hold.

Castiel shoots up from the tub, gasping and coughing, clutching at his chest and gagging the water he has just sucked up.

He scrambles over the ledge, hands and feet slippery enough to send him sprawling into the cold tile. That’ll bruise come morning, he thinks, but he doesn’t care. He tries to focus, to crawl as far away from the water as possible. Water sloshes around his limbs, overflowing from the tub since the shower is still running.

“Fuck,” he coughs, body trembling from exhaustion and sheer terror. “Fuck!”

Castiel manages to sit up, staring wide-eyed at the bathtub. He can’t tell what part had been reality and what had been the nightmare, but a nagging feeling tells him that they were both one and the same.

Once his legs are steady enough to carry him, he wraps a towel around himself and grabs his clothes, turning the shower off at the tap. He makes sure to close the bathroom door on the way out.

Locking himself in his room, he hurriedly puts on his boxers and grabs his phone.

Normally, he’d feel terribly guilty for it, but right now he needs someone that would lend him an ear. It’s not like it’s awfully late or anything—Balthazar is probably still up and at ‘em.

He jams his thumb across the screen, and waits.

No answer.

He calls again, his chest feeling tight. Shivering from the cold, despite the heater being on, he slips under the covers and leaves the lights on.

_“Hello?”_

Castiel opens his mouth to speak, but not a single word comes out. He gasps, a loud sob ripping out of him as he buries his face in his hand.

_“Cas? Castiel? What is—What’s wrong? Cas?!”_

He’s known fear like this before, and he fancies that he’s learned how to reel it in and get everything back under control. But his fingers are shaking, and his chest still burns from nearly drowning.

“I almost drowned in the goddamned bathtub,” he says, turning on the speaker out of fear of dropping the phone.

_“How the hell did you manage that? Did you fall asleep?”_

“No, uh, yes, yes I did. I know what you’re thinking, it wasn’t a dream.”

_“Are you sure about that?”_

“I couldn’t sit up. I couldn’t fucking breathe because something was keeping me beneath the water,” Castiel grits out, silently fuming. “Yeah, I’m pretty damn sure.”

Balthazar sighs, and there’s sleepy mumbling over the line. He picks up a ‘not this again’, and Castiel slumps onto the bed. Of course he’s made the wrong decision in telling anyone.

_“Have you—”_

“I’m clean.” It’s nothing but a whisper, because Castiel knows that that’s the first obvious question Balthazar would ask. “It wasn’t a hallucination, I swear.”

_“Then you were lucid dreaming. Look, Castiel, no one is going to get you. We’ve talked about this. Your therapist has told you this countless times.”_

“I’m not crazy,” and damn if he sounds defensive, even to himself. “And I’m sure you have the wrong idea about lucid dreaming.”

 _“I never said you were, sweetheart,” he says, pointedly ignoring the remark. “What’s crazy is you calling me at two in the morning after having dropped off the map for God knows how long, to tell me that a ghost tried to drown you in your bathtub.”_ Balthazar sounds annoyed, but Castiel can hear the opening of a refrigerator door.

It’s going to be a long night for the two of them.

•••

Castiel doesn’t catch another wink of sleep.

At six in the morning, Balthazar claims his grumpy boyfriend demands he get back to bed. He then goes on to lecture Castiel on how stress can trigger episodes of sleep paralysis, and how most alien abductions are truly just a figment of said episodes.

With a snort, Castiel sends him off to bed, but jots down the information just in case. It sounds like something that would make a good plot point.

Instead of trying to sleep, he gets up and makes himself breakfast. It's only toast and jam with a side of stale coffee, since he can’t be bothered to brew a fresh pot. He’ll have a proper meal once he meets up with Meg, he figures, and duly notes to do something about the dark circles under his eyes.

He turns on his laptop and nearly jumps out of his skin when his cat pounces onto his lap, rubbing against his stomach and purring to get his attention. Scratching the back of her ear, and taking a sip from his coffee, he opens up a blank document.

“You still need a name,” he says absently, smiling down at his housemate.

Castiel thinks about the day she arrived, mysterious in the way only cats can ever manage. In a quiet house, unsettling in its dark stillness.

The idea comes in a way most ideas do, from a jumble of semi-coherent thoughts, which if he tried making any sense of, he just wouldn’t be able to piece together. He thinks about Poe’s _The Raven_ , and before he can think any further, his mind gives him ‘Lenore’.

Running a hand through her fuzzy coat, he nods. “Lenore is a pretty name. For a cat.”

And so, the second lead of his novel was named Lenore.

After getting eight hundred words on a summary done, Castiel spends the rest of his morning lazing around.

Not bothering to clean the dishes, or do his laundry, he opts to sit in front of the television and watch _I Love Lucy_ reruns. He’s still waddling around in nothing but socks, boxers and a shirt, so he wraps himself in a throw and lies on the couch. Before he knows it, it’s eight in the morning and he’s still done nothing to make himself presentable.

Groaning, Castiel moves the dishes to one side of the sink and washes his hair in the basin. There’s no way in hell he’s going back into his shower, so he makes do with what he has. He fetches the shampoo and toothbrush from his bathroom, pointedly ignoring the puddles of water on the tiles around the bath, before hurrying back out.

He tries not to drench himself in cologne, and only dabs a few drops behind his ears.

His hair air dries, and Castiel doesn’t bother combing it.

Slipping on a black cardigan over his gray button down, he thinks he doesn’t look half bad. There isn’t much he can do about the dark circles beneath his eyes, but he hardly thinks Meg will mind. Sleepless nights are part of a writer’s job description.

Finally deciding that he’s as presentable as he’s ever going to get, Castiel grabs his phone and keys and walks out the door.

The morning is icy and the sea is placid, and Castiel has to take a moment to admire it. It unsettles him to think that what happened last night had even occurred in such a peaceful place, and now he finds himself doubting that it even happened at all. Maybe Balthazar was right, and it had all just been a vivid dream.

He gets in his car and puts the key in the ignition, but doesn’t turn it.

Last night, he told Balthazar about Meg and their appointment, and his friend had not sounded too happy about that. Of course, it’s not like he even knew who she was, but the way Balthazar spoke so sharply about it made Castiel uncomfortable.

It’ll just be a date. He is entitled to have friends, after all. Going out for breakfast does not equal sharing a bed, and Castiel decides then that Balthazar was overreacting.

Meg had been a good friend. Cynical, maybe—a full-on troublemaker, but a good friend despite all those lesser qualities.

It’s just a date, he tells himself, swallowing hard around the knot in his throat. It doesn’t feel wrong, like it always has, and it concerns him a great deal. There’s no rational explanation as to _why Meg_ , after all these years.

Castiel turns the key.

The engine turns over, stutters, and shuts off.

Furrowing his eyebrows, he does it again. This time, the engine makes a grinding noise that makes Castiel cringe.

“You have got to be joking.”

He tries it twice more, and twice he’s greeted by the sound of a dying engine and screaming gears.

His fists collide with the steering wheel before he grips it in an attempt to calm himself.

He pops the hood and steps outside.

In the back of his mind, he can hear Gabriel mocking him for bailing on his lessons. His brother had once tried teaching him the basics of car repair, but Castiel hadn’t given two shits about it. Now, he wishes he had.

It's not as simple as a frozen engine, in any case, as the car has been kept inside all night. Smoke fills the garage, making Castiel cough as he recoils, swatting his hand in front of his nose. This is beyond the oil change he’s capable of dealing with, and by the looks of it, the battery doesn’t seem to be the problem either.

He sits on an ignored bar stool and slumps, ready to yank the hair right out of his skull.

After a moment’s hesitation, he does the only logical thing his mind suggests. He grabs the card he stashed in the visor and calls Dean.

 _“Winchester.”_ Castiel bites the inside of his lip and takes a deep breath. The other man’s voice is even gruffer over the phone. _“Hello?”_

“Dean, it’s me.”

There’s a brief silence before, _“Me who?”_

“Castiel, it’s Castiel,” and he sounds like a total idiot to himself. “Sorry, I thought you had my number.”

There’s the sound of shuffling from the other end, and Castiel gets anxious for a reply. _“If I had, I would have called sooner.”_

And there it is, the smooth flirtation Castiel refuses to accept he’s been waiting for. He chuckles, and clears his throat. “I hope it’s not too early? For car trouble, I mean.”

Dean hums, and it sounds like his mouth is full. Castiel is unsurprised when he hears the clatter of silverware. _“She looked healthy to me yesterday, what’s the problem?”_

“It won’t start.”

Dean hums again. _“Prob'ly just a case of engine freeze. Let her rev a while, she'll warm up."_

"It's not that."

_"Well, what else, then? Any strange noise? Smell of burning oil? You gotta give me more besides ‘it won’t start’.”_

“Well, uh, the hood is blowing smoke?”

_“Okay, don’t hurt yourself there. I can come over around noon to give her a once-over, how’s that sound?”_

Castiel groans internally. He’d have to call and cancel today’s appointment; but as quickly as the realization comes, it’s just as easily dispelled. “That sounds good. The quicker this can get done, the better.”

 _“Awesome, give me a second.”_ Castiel hears him move around, the flutter of papers, one of them ripping. _“What’s your address?”_

“The old Robinson house, by the lighthouse.”

The line goes quiet for a second. _“Autumn Hollow?”_

“That’s the one.”

_“You actually bought the house on Autumn Hollow?”_

There’s amusement in Dean’s tone that makes Castiel fidget. “Why, what’s wrong with that?”

_“Didn’t say there was anything wrong.”_

“But you obviously meant it.”

 _“Look,”_ the word is muffled, as Dean is probably taking another bite of his breakfast. _“I’ll fill you in later. I’ve got a stack of pancakes that are getting cold, and it’d be a shame to let ‘em suck up the pecan.”_

Castiel twists his nose but concedes. “Fine. I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

_“Got it.”_

The phone beeps as the call is terminated.

All dolled up and with nowhere to go, Castiel sits on the stool feeling like a complete idiot.

Not all hope is lost, he thinks, twirling the phone. He could always call a taxi, or even ask Dean for a ride into town after he’s checked on the car. But that would qualify as a dick move, wouldn’t it? Castiel isn’t sure what Dean’s intentions are, if it’s all in good fun or if there’s an actual interest there, but asking Dean to drop him off for a date would be rude.

With a resigned sigh, he calls Meg, who picks up on the second ring.

_“Hey there, sweetcheeks.”_

“Meg—”

_“Now, now, before anything, I had to make a pit stop to the laundromat to pick up some… personal effects. I’m running late, so don’t worry.”_

“I won’t be able to make it,” he blurts out, and cringes at once. That sounded far ruder than he expected it would.

_“You’re bailing on me?”_

“No, gosh, no. I’m having car trouble and my mechanic is coming over to look at it in a bit.” He isn’t sure when Dean became _his_ mechanic, but it’s out there now, and some dramatic shift in the smoke-tinged garage air tells him he won’t be able to take that back. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t dream on missing it.”

 _“Right.”_ She doesn’t sound as upset as Castiel thought she would. _“Some things just never change.”_

He takes it back.

“Don’t be that way, Meg.”

_“Oh, right on the cliché. No, it’s fine. It’s all good. I still have another two weeks; maybe we can bump down the appointment?”_

Castiel stares at the ceiling and clears his throat. “Yes, that sounds good. My agenda’s pretty busy all the way up to Thursday, so maybe Friday? I swear, I’ll walk if I have to.”

Meg laughs, a bitter sound that makes Castiel frown. _“Friday it is. If you forget, it’ll be the last thing you do, mister.”_

“I’m quaking in my loafers at the mere thought of it.”

There’s another laugh before the line goes silent, and Castiel smacks his forehead against the hood of the car.

•••

When Dean arrives, Castiel is chopping peppers.

The shrimps have been added to the pan, simmering with garlic and butter, waiting to be sautéed. The bottle of red wine stands idly next to the stove, beside the mustard seeds.

Castiel wipes his hands clean when music fills his yard, the high-pitched voice accompanied by the wail of an electric guitar making him flinch. He peeks out the window, sees the sleek black car that pulls up on his driveway, and raises his eyebrows.

A classic car is so fitting for Dean, and Castiel wonders how he could even picture him driving anything else.

The music fades when Dean cuts the engine and gets out, going for the trunk and pulling out a yellow toolbox. He waves at Castiel, who now stands at the porch, his body filled with the brightness of the sunniest day, making the edges of his eyes crinkle.

“Sorry I’m late, man. Was dropping off my brother at work.”

“It’s no problem.” Castiel is aware that he’s still holding on to the towel and that the shrimps are still in the pan, but he opts for leaning against the door frame and flashing Dean a smile. “Nice of you to drop by on such a short notice.”

“Just doing my job,” Dean says, tipping his invisible hat.

“Come on in, I’ll get you a beer.”

If there’s an extra bounce in his step, Dean doesn’t mention it. The house feels light, the ominous pressure vanished from its corners. Castiel doesn’t linger on the thought, and instead focuses on stirring his shrimp and vegetables before pulling out two bottles of beer.

“Is the chef treating me to lunch, or…?”

Castiel hums as he leans against the refrigerator, cradling the bottle in his hand. “If the mechanic behaves.”

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. “Well this is an interesting plot twist.”

It’s so easy to talk to Dean that it somehow feels as if he’s cheating. It doesn’t feel like talking to a stranger; more like an old flame that never really went out. The thought makes Castiel feel slightly uncomfortable. But Dean takes a swig from his drink, and Castiel is too enraptured by his exposed neck to properly react. The way Dean’s thick lips cushion the bottle neck as gold drops of condensation chase to settle on his fingers makes Castiel lick his own lips. It’s indecent, and he would bet his house that the bastard is doing it on purpose.

Castiel serves their lunch, and the stares and suggestive remarks are moved to the backburner. They remain standing at the counter, the both of them enjoying their shrimp and Dean showering him with praise at how wonderful it tastes.

“You know, you never told me if you were published or not.”

Castiel bites down on a still-crunchy pepper and hums in agreement. "You never told me about this house," he says in reply.

Dean looks into the living room, apparently taking in the impressive book collection. “Trade?”

“That sounds fair,” Castiel says, resting his ass against the counter. He doesn’t miss when Dean steals a quick glimpse at it. “I’ve got three published novels, one of which did pretty well.”

Dean whistles and sucks a finger clean. “Judging by your property of choice, I hope it’s not cheesy romance?”

“Science fiction.”

“Awesome.”

“Your turn.”

“Okay,” Dean begins, and he lets his eyes roam across Castiel’s form. “I bet your realtor never told you that you bought the most haunted place this side of America.”

Castiel blinks once, twice, three times before he blurts out a laugh. “That’s it? You’re selling me a ghost story? How _old_ are you?”

Dean shrugs. “Old enough.”

“A ghost story, Dean, really? What are you playing at?”

His smirk is lascivious. “If you ever get scared, I can stay the night.”

“And do what, exactly?”

“Baby, the things I’d do to you—” Dean cuts himself off, presumably because of the look on Castiel’s face. “Oh, you mean like… what I’d do if you’re scared?”

The tips of Castiel’s ears burn hot, and he’s certain there’s something wrong with him, because he _likes_ it. Oh _god_ , does he like it. “You should, uhm, go look at the car.”

“I should, shouldn’t I?” Dean grabs his beer and nearly bolts out the door, leaving Castiel to trail behind him, chuckling along the way. “Didn’t mean to come on that strong, buddy.”

“I don’t mind,” and he honestly doesn’t. God knows Castiel should be repelled by it, but the constant flirtation keeps him on his feet. A fire burns deep in his stomach, just one shade away from being actual arousal. There’s something about Dean that leaves him feeling elated.

“You didn’t seem all that up to it at the club.” Dean walks up the driveway and raps his knuckles against the tin of the car.

“I was drunk, Dean. I couldn’t tell a parakeet from a cow.” He lingers on his words before deciding that he, too, comes on too strong. “Besides, it was the first time we properly spoke to each other.”

“My bad if I made you uncomfortable,” he says, and the words are genuine. Dean pops the trunk. “I figured you’d be better off with me than being swarmed by those other dirt bags.”

Castiel pulls out the same stool from earlier. “What dirt bags?”

“The ones that kept trying to feel you up. Wasn’t that why you were hiding from the crowd in the first place?”

Thinking back to that night, the only person who had shown the slightest bit of interest had been Crowley. “I’m not sure I was aware.”

“Really? Man, they were this close to freaking pouncing on you.”

“Huh.” Castiel crosses his arms and watches Dean work.

Bolts and gears are removed, and Dean is swift but efficient. He checks the oil and reads the battery, uses some kind of machine to monitor some numbers, and Castiel has no idea what he’s doing, but he trusts that he’s doing a good job with it.

“Not that it’s any of my business but… You heading someplace?” Dean asks from beside the engine, greasy hand feeling for a wrench. “You’re wearing cologne, for crying out loud.”

Self-conscious, Castiel scratches at his neck. “I was going to see someone.”

Dean’s hand stops as he straightens up, and turns to Castiel with a stunned expression. “Who?”

“That’s none of your business,” Castiel says defensively.

Dean goes back to working on a bolt. “Didn’t mean to pry.”

Castiel fidgets with the sleeve of his cardigan and sighs. “She’s an old friend.”

“I thought it was none of my business.”

“Dean—”

“Cas, you don’t have to give me any explanations. I don’t know you.”

He’s right, but Castiel wants to change that. “We can start working on that, if you want.” Dean snorts. “I’m serious.”

“That’s kind of the problem. You take everything too seriously.”

Castiel bristles. “That’s a pretty steep assumption for someone who doesn’t know me.”

Dean snorts, and it’s an ugly derisive sound. “People are easy to read.” Canting his hips to the side, Dean licks his lips while concentrating on the car. “Throw ‘em a bone and you’ll be surprised by the results.”

Castiel feels affronted at the implications, and while he refrains from jumping to conclusions, the foundation behind their previous encounters takes an unpleasant shade of scorn. “Are you saying you get your rocks off on poking fun at people?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“Just you.”

Castiel is taken aback by the admission. “You’ve been, what, toying with me from the start?”

Dean, straightening up, has the decency to look confused. “Dude, your face has ‘homophobe’ written all over it. You looked disgusted when Jo said that dinner was on me, and you walk like there’s a permanent stick up your ass.” An awkward silence follows before Dean continues. “I have a tendency to poke fun at dicks.”

Crestfallen, Castiel stands up. “How dare you presume this of me.”

Tapping the wrench to his chin, Dean hums. “Okay, so I’m going for closet homo.”

“I think I’ve heard enough from you.”

“I’m right, aren’t I?” The smirk on Dean’s face is dirty, and a part of Castiel realizes that he’s being riled up just for laughs. “No other reason why you’d be so miffed.”

“Your services are no longer required,” Castiel snaps, and he has to refrain from physically shoving Dean out of the garage. “I’ll find a professional to deal with this, thank you.”

With a laugh, Dean throws his tools into the toolbox and marches towards his car. “It’s kind of sad, actually, being too afraid to take what you want.” Castiel is still trudging behind him, near enough to hit him. “Not all that difficult, Cas. Just reach out and take it. All yours, buddy.”

“Out.”

“Come on, man! Look at you, practically starving for it.”

The words sound like an obscene cross between alluring and jeering. “Dean,” he warns, but he’s interrupted.

“Do yourself the favor and stop thinking that you can possibly ignore it. I can read you like a book, from the set of your shoulders, to the circles under your eyes,” Dean nearly purrs, his voice menacing in its low pitch. “I know what it is you want, and life would be a whole lot easier if you just gave in.”

Castiel fists his hand, ready to punch him across the jaw, but Dean tsks and throws his toolbox inside the trunk.

“It’s not your fault your wife left you.”

The words land like a blow to his chest, and Castiel reels where he stands. His eyes narrow sharply, hands clenching and unclenching by his sides. He feels no greater need than to snuff the son of a bitch right off his feet.

Dean looks smug. “Ring finger, in case you’re wondering. You’ve lost some color, but the tan is still noticeable. I bet you’ve got the ring hanging from that chain around your neck. Carrying it around like it’ll bring her back. The family car was a dead giveaway, too. No one drives a sedan that size without having a few hellspawn running around.”

“Get off my property.”

“You gotta let it go, man.”

“Get off my property or I will call the cops.”

Dean lifts his hands in surrender and gets in his car. “You’re a lot more complicated than I gave you credit for,” he says, lowering the window on the driver’s side. “Think about it.” He puts the car in reverse, and once he’s on the road, he waves.

Castiel is left standing on the driveway, fists shaking and face hot with rage. He’d been played, insulted, and mocked in the course of two minutes, and he blames no one but himself for that. He caved under the pressure, let his fancy run away with the show, and now he stood there, feeling like the moron that he is.

“Asshole! You fucking—” Castiel turns around and grips at his hair, a deep sense of dread knifing across his chest.

It hurts, but he’s not sure what hurts more—the fact that something so personal was just made a mockery of, or that Dean didn’t mean any of those sultry advances.

He feels sick for even balancing both things on the same scale, because who even _is_ Dean to him? This perfect stranger, who has smoothed-talked him into perhaps indulging in a fantasy he had never considered. How could something so trivial and distasteful, so insulting, even begin to compare with the subject of his family?

Worst of all, all he wants to do is pick up the phone and call. Call Dean and demand he apologize for those slurs. But he doesn’t. He refuses to even think about it any further.

Balthazar had been right.

Pulling at his collar, popping the first two buttons of his shirt, Castiel fumes and heads inside, wanting nothing more than to punch something. Hard.

•••

Days come and go, and Castiel loses touch with reality.

His days run along while he stares at the empty walls of his home, glares at the blinking cursor of his computer document, and rips the pages off his notebook.

The mind is a treacherous thing, cruel in its taunts and vivid in its unwarranted fantasies.

The words over his papers are gibberish, but the green-eyed man with a classic rock fetish is the only consistent detail. Inspiration is drawn from half-formed nightmares that are forgotten once he wakes, all blurs of water and drowning, smoke filling his mouth sickly sweet.

A haunted estate by a lighthouse.

By all means, he has a fantastic setting for an enrapturing thriller, but the man would have no role in it, were Castiel to develop it. The man had to be written, even if some traits had to be reformed. It’s not science fiction, but all writers step outside of their comfort zone every once in a while, if only to spice things up.

Maybe that’s what Castiel needs, some spice in his monotonous life. Tread on dangerous territory and explore the unknown.

Castiel fingers the wedding band around his neck as he sits in his study, facing the wall that was once covered in eerie symbols.

He had written it off as a charlatans perfecting their graffiti skill, but thinking back to the old mural, it was too perfect, too intentional. No average street kid would be familiar with occult Egyptian, Sumerian and Greek deities. Zeus and jackals are one thing, but Castiel had to research some of the images he had seen.

Finally, he had requested the wall to be covered, and it was. The burgundy and black wallpaper is esthetically pleasing against the dark wood of the furniture and the matching figurines littered across the shelves. But it lacks life. It’s too dark, and while Castiel has always loved writing in the dark, the room feels suffocating.

A stray thought shows him Dean painting the mural himself, with oil-based paint that’s already staining his forehead and hands whenever he step back to calculate the scale. His face is lanky and limbs gangly in their youth, and his brother keeps an eye out in case anyone comes to bust them.

No child would have been able to pull it off.

Castiel pinches his nose in frustration.

He’s not angry. He stopped being angry two days ago when Dean sent him a text message, apologizing for crossing the line, explaining that he didn’t know what had gotten into him.

_Let me buy you a drink._

Castiel politely declined, insisting that he had work to do, and thankfully Dean didn’t press.

There are six other text messages in Castiel’s drafts, all of them for Dean, but after the first, he didn’t send a single one.

His blood simmers at the mere thought of him, and he hates it. He hates how his body reacts whenever he entertains a stray fantasy, perhaps of Dean touching the back of his hand to get his attention. He hates the desire that turns deep in his stomach when he imagines Dean whispering how sorry he is against his mouth. Castiel has to stop himself countless times from venturing any further into the thoughts of Dean pressing his fingers into the skin of his hips, thumbs playing along the hard bluntness of his hipbones.

Six years of mourning may be enough for Balthazar and the rest of the world, but as long as touching another body continues to feel like the most terrible of betrayals, he’ll continue to dress in metaphorical black. Sometimes it’s easier to hide the guise behind the ‘I don’t swing that way’ excuse, because it’s far less painful than explaining that his wife and son were brutally murdered. It had been a double blow, and it would be a miracle if he were ever to recover from it.

That doesn’t stop his body from wanting.

Repressing is usually easy; a good shower, some aspirins, and bitter coffee always does the trick. Maybe reading a good book, or watching terrible television. He’s always grateful for a distraction.

But Dean.

Three times have they directed their words to each other, not counting their conversation via text, and already Castiel pines for him in such a way that it made Romeo look like Data from _The Next Generation_. Castiel doesn’t understand why this is happening to him, and he doesn’t _want_ to understand.

Opening his laptop, Castiel begins to type without much thought. He lets the words flow out of him, not bothering to filter anything. He can always go back and clean it up once he’s finished. It’s the only way he’ll be able to get anything done, because over-thinking rarely gets any words expressed.

His fingers fly over the keyboard, spilling a mixture of eloquent and clipped sentences, incorrect words and terrible grammar. It doesn’t matter, he’ll eventually print the pages and fix them with a pen, then properly rewrite them.

There isn’t much of a story, but a senseless scene that takes life of its own and types out itself, using Castiel’s fingers like a mouthpiece. They go on and on as the clock above his desk hits midnight, one in the morning, two, three— it’s half past four when he finally sits back and clasps his hands over his face.

The words, despite their crude state, are beautiful. There’s meat in them, an essence and emotion so deep that Castiel can’t decipher where they came from. They curl around his tongue as he reads them aloud, their timing and rhythm perfect as he passes period after period.

But it isn’t what he intended.

This new character he has forced into existence... he can't depict them as someone who is willing to take someone of the same sex to bed. Not only would Castiel’s agent have his head for it, but his family would disown him the rest of the way.

Lenore rubs against his leg, and he leans down to pet her.

Castiel refuses to delete it.

He’s the kind of writer who doesn’t fancy destroying what he’s created because others don’t think it’s proper or good enough. If he does end up keeping the scene, all he has to do is change his new character into a woman and get it over with. If Hans Christian Andersen did it, so could he.

Hazel eyes flash in his mind’s eye, curls of brown hair falling onto slender freckled shoulders he so fervently kissed. Her laughter was always so rich whenever he hugged her from behind, Jeremy throwing flour at them.

 _You were always meant for much greater things, Cas,_ she’d said when she found him sitting in the attic, looking out the tiny window. He had been fired from the insurance company earlier that day. She got him a laptop a few weeks later, and he started writing for the first time.

This isn’t greater. He doesn’t know what this is, but it will never be greater than having a casserole together, or sitting in the living room watching the original Star Trek movies.

Greater died months before Emily did.

When the nights grew long and she wouldn’t come home, Castiel would sit in Jeremy’s bed and comb his hair with his fingers whenever he woke up crying from a nightmare.

_There’s a man outside the window, Daddy. I’m scared._

Oh, how Castiel wishes he had listened.

The fights came and the dishes went, smashed and splintered as Castiel’s fingers bled. Never in front of Jeremy, he didn’t need to witness the darker side of love. No marriage was ever perfect, and Castiel came to understand that when the arguments continued to rain down on him. And every night, after it all was over, he would sit by her side and squeeze her hand, apologize for things he didn’t do, because he loved her. He loved her and he loved his son.

Castiel sobs over his computer, the tears spilling after years of pent up hopelessness.

There’s so much he could have done differently. He could have saved them both. Emily never kissed him after that last fight, and the thought that she hadn’t forgiven him hurts more than any other thing he has ever experienced.

He is alone, and he wants no one to fill those two spaces. This is his penance, and he will serve it to the end.

Closing the computer screen, Castiel opens the desk drawer.

The movements are mechanical, something he stopped thinking about long ago. There’s no hesitation, no right or wrong to this, nothing that could possibly go wrong in his deft hands. It’s easier to handle, easier to do when he numbs himself to the possible consequences.

Twirling the beads of an ivory rosary around his finger, Castiel pushes it away. He’s no longer a man of faith. There is no place for God in his heart, because clearly there was no place for him in God’s thoughts.

Licking his lips, Castiel reaches for his syringe.

•••

The only office supply store on Nires Island is a tiny thing that doesn’t even have a working fax machine. True, people rarely use those any more.

He pins a stack of paper under his arm and walks over to the ink section of the store.

Earlier that morning, he had gone to print the words he had gotten down on his document, only to discover that he was out of ink. New paper isn’t necessary, but he’d rather stock up just in case.

A call to Dean had directed him to voicemail, which had made Castiel frown in disappointment. He’d left him a message, asking when he could work on Castiel's car. Since the car is still out of commission, Balthazar gave him a lift, and then decided to stick around for the remainder of the day. Castiel knows that it’s attributed to the unnatural red of his own eyes, and he feels the guilty for burdening his friend.

“You heard about the storm?” Balthazar asks from where he’s poking at some binders. “Thing came out of bloody nowhere and it’s heading right for us.”

Castiel moves the first two packages out of the rack to grab the correct cartridge for his printer. “No, I haven’t really watched that much television.”

“Biggest blizzard in decades, apparently. People are starting to stock up on provisions. We should stop by the supermarket and pick up some things while we’re here.”

“All right.” Castiel tries not to fidget under Balthazar’s scrutinizing gaze.

“What happened?”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t be an idiot, you know what I’m talking about. Your eyes.”

Staring at the ink cartridge in his hand, Castiel squares off his shoulders. “This isn’t the place, Balthazar.”

Someone drifts by and they fall quiet, both looking in opposite directions. When the person is out of earshot, Balthazar warns, “We’re discussing this later.”

“Of course.”

He doesn’t bother denying it. There’s no real reason to lie when it comes to Balthazar, a man who knows everything down to the most intimate detail.

The two of them make a beeline for the cashier, when someone bumps into them.

Balthazar is quick to sass whoever slammed into them, but Castiel elbows him in the ribs when he catches sight of the woman staring at him like he is a crown jewel.

Before either can speak, she’s already laughing. “I knew it was you!”

Castiel blinks owlishly. “Excuse me?”

“C.J. Novak. I saw you on _Ellen_ earlier this year. You’re much thinner in person,” says the black lady, her southern accent thick as it rolls around the tip of her tongue. “ _The Endless Divide_ was an excellent piece of work, but you could have done more research on the whole spirit stream thing.”

Surprised, Castiel laughs. He’s yet to meet anyone who’s read his work since he moved. “I’m not sure whether or not to say thank you.”

The woman laughs, a deep rumble that sounds like cinnamon over gunpowder. Short, dark, and wide, Castiel thinks she would make a wonderful character.

“Mm-hmm. Honey, you look like you’ve been run over by a freight train.”

Balthazar makes an aborted snorting sound, earning him a glare from Castiel.

“It’s been a rough week.”

The woman leans in and he instantly leans backward, blinking several times as she grabs his hand and flips it palm-up. She frowns at it, then looks up at his face. “Oh, you poor, sweet little thing. That mark is blacker than night, and yet you’ve been trailing with it all on your own.”

“Not this again,” mutters Balthazar, turning away to look at the candy rack.

Castiel looks at him, then back at the woman, his eyes wide. He has no idea what she’s talking about, but he doesn’t like it one bit. “Um.”

“Your soul is practically screaming. Holding it all in will only take you to an early grave; I can already see the darkness creeping in through the edges.” She releases his hand and takes a step back, touching her chest with a sad look. “And I’m sorry, but it just had to be said.”

“I’m… not exactly sure _what_ you just said.”

“Missouri Moseley. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She holds out her hand, and Castiel hesitantly shakes it. “I know I’m being vague but there’s only so much I can say in an office shop.”

“Mrs. Moseley—”

“That’s Miss Moseley to you, handsome.”

“Right, Miss Moseley. What does any of that mean?”

Missouri opens her mouth to speak but instead turns away, towards Balthazar, to glare at him. “That’s ‘visionary’, mister. Watch your mouth.” Balthazar looks taken aback, and walks farther away. “I can still hear you.”

Castiel continues to stand there, feeling quite lost, wondering if he’s missed something.

“Everybody insists on calling me the town psychic, but I’m more of a visionary. Not like I read crystal balls.” When Castiel says nothing, she continues. “Look, I know it may come off as crazy, but it’s as authentic as its going to get. There are some things you need to know, but we can’t talk about it here.”

“So you want me to stop by your kiosk?”

“Boy, I ain’t a palm reader. My house. Tell Balthazar there to drive you over tonight, I’ll make you some coffee and cookies. And no, I don’t require payment unless you have a copy of _Renegade Angels_ to spare. Hardcover. And you can bet I want it signed.”

“How did you know I was—”

“It’s a gift. Go along now and get stocked up. This storm is going to be a doozy.”

She hobbles off in the direction of the office furniture, and Castiel stands there, bewildered beyond reason.

A psychic.

“Visionary,” she corrects over her shoulder, and Castiel fumbles with his stuff towards the cashier.

“What was all that about?” Balthazar asks, finally emerging out of nowhere with a bag of Skittles in tow. He throws it on top of the stack of papers on the checkout counter. “I’ve known Missouri since I moved here, and never have I seen her so… so _animated_ about reading someone.”

“My soul is black?” Castiel rubs at his eyes, not paying much attention to anything. “How is such a thing even possible? How the hell can she even see my soul?”

“I’ll say. This dispels my theory of you not being in possession of one,” Balthazar tries to joke, grinning at the cashier as she scans the items.

Castiel fishes for his credit card.

“I just got my palm read in a store.”

“Yes, I was there.”

“She knew what I was going to say before I said it.”

“Happens to most of us.”

Castiel enters his PIN while Balthazar packs his things, and heads for the exit once he’s done. The sky is already gray, a warning for bad weather. Frost settles on Balthazar’s car windows.

“She said to stop by her house later today, after we’ve stocked up for the storm.”

“You cannot possibly be serious, Castiel.”

“I just want to hear what she has to say. I’ve been having a hellish past couple of weeks, maybe she can shed some light on how to shake it all off my shoulders.”

“You mean besides shooting up?”

Castiel’s hand stills on the door handle, eyes steady on his reflection before looking away. He doesn’t bother answering a question he knows is rhetorical. Taking a deep breath, he yanks the door open and climbs inside.

They don’t talk the rest of the way.

The streets are heavy with traffic, stores jam-packed as the first flurry begins to build up along sidewalks. Castiel has never seen snowfall so early; it’s barely the end of October and already they’re expecting a few inches of snow overnight.

Castiel’s phone begins to vibrate when they drive into the supermarket’s parking lot, and his stomach flutters nervously when he sees Dean’s name on the screen. It’s a text message, but it makes him smile inwardly.

_Sorry I didn’t pick up earlier. On business. Be back in a couple of days._

The phone vibrates again.

_Entertain me whenever you get the chance. Bored. Saw shrimps and thought of you._

And again.

_Don’t miss me too much. ;)_

Castiel chuckles at the last message, and starts when Balthazar rips the phone out of his hands. “Hey!”

Balthazar frowns as he scrolls down, mindful of other cars pulling out of parking spaces when they reach the supermarket. “Winchester?”

“He’s my mechanic,” Castiel says, bordering on defensive.

“Saw shrimps and thought of you. How romantic of him.” 

Rolling his eyes, he finds an available space to slip the car into. After turning off the ignition, he shoves the phone in Castiel’s direction, who forces the car door open and slams it into a grocery cart on purpose. 

“I’m not listening to any more lectures,” Castiel says.

Balthazar doesn’t bother inspecting the damage, and activates the car alarm as he jogs up to Castiel. “I wasn’t going to give you one, you dolt.”

Castiel snorts, then begins to speak in a decidedly awful mimicry of a British accent. “‘What happened to Carter? She’s a lovely lady. Suddenly batting for the other team? I can introduce you to a handful of other gentlemen that can treat you right.’”

Huffing and holding his chin up, Balthazar retorts, “I do not sound like that.”

“It’s none of your business.”

“Cas, just talk to me.”

“What for? So you can sit on your mighty throne and judge me for every decision I make?”

Balthazar grabs a cart and chases after Castiel. “Your choices haven’t always rung well and proper, might I remind you.”

“Fuck you.”

Balthazar cants his head to the side. “Remember the time when you never swore? Even when that Buddha book holder fell on your toe? I’ve never seen a blacker nail in my life.”

Castiel doesn’t answer, just continues to stomp his way through the automatic doors.

“Look, I get it, you’re a grown man capable of making your own decisions. Sue me for wanting to be a good friend and talking sense into you. If you want to screw Winchester’s brains out, be my guest, but when you wake up to a cold bed and a note that says ‘you have a great ass’, don’t go spiraling into another bout of suicidal depression.”

“I was never suicidal. And I never said I slept with him. For God’s sake, I’ve only met the man three times.” Castiel grabs the only pack of AA batteries he can find. The pack is open and missing one, but there are no other packets left. “The last time we spoke, it ended on a sour note.”

“He’s a fool. Why would this even surprise me?”

“Most of the things he said were true, and I reacted like an emotionally delicate flower. Granted, he said some things that were out of place, but it didn’t merit me kicking him out of my house.”

Balthazar only hums and goes for the last box of UHT milk hidden behind the cereal boxes. “Go on.”

“He…” Castiel shoves his hands into his coat pockets. “He brought up Emily. He said that it wasn’t my fault she left me.” The shopping cart stops, forcing Castiel to stop alongside it and look up at his friend. “What is it?”

Leaning against the cart, Balthazar regards him thoughtfully. “It’s been years since I’ve heard you say her name.” Castiel fiddles with the belt on his coat. “No one’s perfect, Cassie, and Dean’s known for being a cocky smartass. I would wager honest money that he was trying to buy himself some cool points, and ended fucking things up.”

An old lady gasps at Balthazar’s language, and hurries down the cereal aisle.

That does make sense, Castiel thinks, reaching for a box of Lucky Charms. Since day one, Dean had written himself as a smooth Casanova. The realization makes him feel torn between anger and elation.

Castiel’s phone vibrates in his pocket, loud enough for Balthazar to hear it too, but he doesn’t pick up.

“I don’t know what to do,” he says, devastated. His shoulders sag as he turns to stare down the aisle.

Balthazar’s face softens. “All right, you listen to me.” He grabs Castiel’s arm and makes him face him. “You’ve been stuck in the same place for years; sitting there in a dark corner with nothing but a moth-eaten security blanket. I’ve tried getting you back on your feet, your family has tried, your acquaintances have tried, and I’m seeing that you’re still the stubborn bastard I met all those years ago. I can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped.

“I see now, that no matter what we do, you will only work on your terms. Fair enough. Clearly it hasn’t worked on ours, so let’s give yours a try. You’re a grown man, you can take care of yourself.”

Castiel nods, slowly, as his phone begins to vibrate again.

“Answer him,” Balthazar says, but his tone isn’t accusing, as Castiel had expected. “He should be worried. You never answered his messages.”

Releasing a measured exhale, Castiel fishes his phone out of his pocket.

“Hello, Dean.”

_“Hey, buddy. You doing okay?”_

Castiel feels his cheeks twitch as he tries to hold back a smile. “I’m fine. Stocking up for the big storm.”

 _“You didn’t answer my messages.”_ He sounds affronted, making Castiel turn away to hide a smirk from Balthazar.

“My apologies for not being diligent in my replies.”

_“Anyways, sorry to cut this conversation short, can’t talk right now. Just called to check you were okay. But, uh, I’ll be back in two days, three tops. Don’t want to be stranded away from home before the storm hits.”_

Castiel nods before remembering that Dean can’t see him. “My car anxiously awaits your return.”

_“Hey, that’s your fault for kicking me off your property.”_

“And that was your fault for being a dick.”

There’s shuffling over the line before Dean hesitantly asks, _“Are you ever going to tell me what happened?”_

Castiel quickly looks up at Balthazar, as if asking him for a reasonable answer for that question, but the man smirks at him, his eyebrows lifted knowingly.

_“You don’t have to, if you don’t want to—”_

“Buy me a drink and we’ll talk about it,” Castiel blurts out before thinking better of it, and instantly flinches when Balthazar claps his hands with a bark of laughter. The color drains from his face.

 _“I’m holding you to that,”_ Dean says, his tone deliberately raspy. His voice sounds distant, as if he’s holding the phone away when he says something that sounds like ‘give me a second, Sam’, before he returns. _“I really gotta go, Cas.”_

“It’s all right. I’ll see you soon.”

The phone beeps, signaling the end of the call. Castiel exhales softly, glaring at Balthazar who beams brightly. “What?”

“You, my brother, are whipped.”

“Balthazar—”

“ _Whipped_ , I say,” he barks out, laughing as he pats Castiel on the back. “Holy Christ, I have never seen you so doe-eyed over a phone call.”

Castiel ducks his head, heat pooling in his cheeks and ears. “Can we just finish our shopping?”

“—And flirting! Honest to God flirting, I never even knew you were capable of it. Cassie, darling, you have made my week.”

Grabbing two more boxes of cereal on a whim, Castiel walks away, leaving a whooping Balthazar behind.

The store is devoid of people now, its shelves nearly clean after the initial wave of panic, and Castiel starts to think he’s underestimating the potential of the storm.

He once rode out a blizzard in Colorado, while visiting his brother, Michael, one Christmas. Of course, now they are living on a tiny island off the coast of the United States, and a cut-off in communications is highly possible. He’s starting to think that living on the seafront isn’t a good idea.

Both he and Balthazar scavenge the last of the goods, canned and non-perishable. Most of it is generically branded. They are lucky enough to find the last two camping stoves fully equipped with tiny gas tanks, and a twelve pack of matches.

Balthazar buys Castiel a bottle of wine.

“We’re just acquaintances,” Castiel repeats for the fourth time in the last forty minutes. “As you said, I’m keeping an eye out for whatever debaucheries he might be up to.”

“Just the bad ones, yes? Make sure you enjoy the good ones.”

“You are insufferable.”

“Come on, Cas. A little kissing and rubbing has never done anyone anything but good.”

Castiel chokes on his own saliva.

•••

By the time they reach Missouri’s home, dusk settles over them, orange overlaying gray and making the air unbearably cold.

They both make a run for the porch, shivering in their light coats and gloves. Castiel knocks.

Glorious heat and the smell of juniper spills out the front door when it’s pulled open, pale orange light framing Missouri like a halo. She wags her finger and chuckles, silently beckoning them to enter.

The interior isn’t much different from Castiel’s home, for the exception of the wide range of colors that cover the house from wall to wall. There’s incense coming from the living room, and the smell of freshly baked cookies from the kitchen.

“Took you two long enough.”

“Sorry, Miss Moseley. Had to stop by my place for a brief moment,” Castiel says, waving a hardcover edition of his latest book. “I couldn’t drop by empty handed.”

“Bless your soul, Castiel. Make yourselves at home.”

He isn’t all that surprised that she knows his real name. “Thank you.”

Balthazar plops down on the couch as she wanders into the kitchen, but Castiel walks around the living room, taking in the sight of things he’d only read about in magazines with Bigfoot on the cover.

Bundles of herbs, coins of all sizes, necklaces, candles, a jar filled with something white…

“That’s salt, hon. Keeps the bad stuff from coming in,” Missouri explaines as she re-enters the room with a tray of cookies. She sets it on the table at the center of the room, then heads out again.

“What bad stuff?” Balthazar says, testing if the cookies are cool enough to grab. They are pumpkin-shaped chocolate chips.

“Oh you know, spirits, ghosts, demons. Anything that wishes to do you any harm, salt will keep it out. Or in, depending where you’re at.”

Castiel and Balthazar exchange looks.

“One smart remark from either of you and you’re out the door. Remember that you don’t need to speak it for me to hear it.”

“I’m sorry, but… I don’t believe in any of this,” Castiel says, slowly, as if worrying that he might insult her by admitting it.

“This isn’t voodoo, sweetie. These things will hurt you, whether you believe in them or not. You don’t choose these things, they choose you.” She sets three mugs beside the tray and takes a seat on an old rocking chair. She doesn’t speak, just looks at Castiel with a kind sort of intensity.

He feels uncomfortably exposed.

_You don’t choose these things, they choose you._

For a moment, Castiel is struck with the wild thought that most of his life he’s been exposed to this type of phenomenon. The nightmares, the silence in his house, his wife and son, the force that drags him down—

“You are right, Castiel, and I am really sorry to see you suffer this way.”

Balthazar blinks at her. “What? What way? What’s he right about?”

“But why me?” he asks, holding out his arms in a hopeless gesture. “There’s nothing remotely special about me.”

“You’re special enough. You see, these things, these entities, they’re like moths. Give them a light and they’ll fly to it, constantly fluttering and occasionally slamming into it. Best case scenario, they catch fire and burn. Worst case—your case, they’ll swarm.”

Castiel takes a cookie but doesn’t eat it; instead he twirls it around in his hand. “How come I got stuck with the worst case scenario? Assuming, of course, that I believed in this.”

“Your aura is a peculiar thing. It glows gray, but… it’s a strange hue of gray. Like it once was this bright beacon that set a child’s heart to shame, but it’s been muted, opaque. But only part of this is your doing.” She’s quiet for a moment. “Sadly, you continue to think correctly.”

Castiel feels violated.

“I can’t shut it down,” she explains, smoothing her hands across her lap. “I can lower the volume of frequencies, however, which is what I do whenever I go out. I’m sorry if this makes you uncomfortable, but this isn’t my fault. Your aura is _screaming_.” The last word is an urgent whisper that makes her stand up and cross the living room floor.

“The aura is very different than the human mind, more like a reflection of the soul. It perceives and manifests feelings and thoughts and emotions in a much more feral manner, without a filter. Its energy feeds off these things, needs a balanced diet or risk going bad.”

“Guess mine went bad ages ago.”

Missouri nods her head. “You made an inhuman effort to block things out. Such necessary things, too. I don’t need to tell you those, because I know you know what they are. But I beg you to listen to it, Castiel, before it grows past the point of salvation.”

“I don’t want salvation,” Castiel says within an instant, his eyes hard.

Tenderly touching his cheek, Missouri tuts him. “Salvation isn’t something that revolves around the godly and the religious, honey. It’s peace of mind for the remainder of your days. Only you can find that.”

“That’s all good and fascinating,” Balthazar interrupts, resting the mug on his bent knee, “but any faith healer could have told him that. To think a ‘visionary’ would have pulled more interesting tricks.”

“I’m not here to read you your fortune, boy, nor am I here to tell you next week’s lottery numbers,” Missouri warns, pointing at Balthazar before turning back to Castiel. “I don’t have to tell you this, and by all means you don’t have to believe any of it. There is darkness in your heart and an even darker plume is trailing behind you, lurking to slip in through the cracks at the right time, and if you’re not careful… God help you, son. It’s going to be a long way down.”

Castiel takes a shuddering breath, shocked by the urgency in her voice. Her eyes shine in the flickering candlelight, their brown deep and rich as they beg Castiel to listen. Swallowing around the knot in his throat, he gives her a terse nod. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Keep an eye on whoever walks in through your front door. But most importantly, let this beat again,” Missouri says, poking Castiel’s chest, right over his heart. “Find your center and don’t be afraid to open your eyes. Now eat your cookies.”

Walking around her, Castiel takes a handful and sits beside Balthazar, head bowed like a chastised little boy. The cookies taste delicious.

“Glad you like them,” she says sweetly, striding alongside the fireplace. “The whole ‘watch who walks in through the door’ is a lot more literal than you might think. You’ll need salt, not iodized, actual rock salt. Make a thick line in every entrance; this includes doors, windows, anywhere anything might be able to slip in.”

Balthazar snorts, but Castiel nods dutifully.

“Smudge that entire place with sage.” Missouri picks up a small bundle of sage tightly wrapped in twine. “All you have to do is light one end and walk around the house, make sure that smoke gets into every nook and cranny. It’ll help against any lingering energy.”

“And you think this’ll get _rid_ of everything?” Balthazar asks, ever the skeptic.

“Goodness, no. Whatever is following Castiel is far more powerful than anything I could ever pull out of my sleeve.”

“That’s nice to know, thanks,” Castiel says, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“It will buy you some time.”

“Time for what?”

“I have no idea,” she says, truthfully. “That’s as far as my sight goes. Something is blocking the rest, and try as I might, I can’t get through to it. The pieces are still falling into place, and you might just be the most important piece on the board.”

“Hear that, Cassie? You’re a Queen after all.”

Balthazar’s quip goes ignored.

“Do you think this is completely...” Castiel licks his lips, stunned that he’s even buying into it, “um, otherworldly?”

“Do I think that someone is behind this? Honey, the Other doesn’t interfere with humanity unless someone pokes at it. Unless you’ve been dabbling in the unknown, I’m certain someone is out to get you.”

“Miss Moseley,” Balthazar interrupts, loudly, to gain their attention. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, and I’m sure Cas does too, but by all means, he doesn’t need a load of rubbish to fuel his paranoia.”

“Balthazar, the day you have a sinister entity feeding off your darkest memories and fueling your most terrifying nightmares, then you may speak of Castiel’s paranoia. In the meantime, I suggest you sit your bony behind down and be supportive of your best friend. I know you’ve done everything in your power, but let the man breathe his own air.”

Castiel huffs a short laugh, patting Balthazar’s knee. “You heard the woman.”

Balthazar sticks his tongue out at him in an impressively mature fashion.

Muttering to herself, Missouri adds tiny trinkets to a hand-woven bag. They both watch as she picks at her shelves, deep in thought.

“Here we go,” she says, handing the bag over to Castiel. “A starter kit. This’ll keep you out of trouble until we can figure out what’s going on behind the veil.”

Castiel takes the bag and peeks inside. “Thank you.”

“Free of charge,” she adds, staring at Balthazar accusingly.

After they have finished their coffee, they take the leftover cookies in a bundle, and Missouri leads them to the door. Night has fallen, and the cold bites at the skin of Castiel’s cheeks.

When Balthazar has gone off to start the car, and is well out of earshot, Missouri takes Castiel by the arm.

“You watch your back, now. You might think these things will be easy to spot, but they’re not. They will come wrapped up in familiar comforts, and it might come to you as a passing thought, and you might ignore it and write it off as this supposed paranoia of yours.”

“I’ll keep a sharp eye, Miss Moseley.”

“I have no doubt about it, but you lack conviction, Castiel. Now don’t take this as an insult, I’m just trying to make you see. You have to learn how and when to say no to certain things, and yes to others. Grow a backbone, is what I’m saying. Not everything is your fault.”

Castiel’s back stiffens, hands clenched inside his coat pockets.

“And I don’t think you’d be ready for that answer, Castiel. Sometimes, ignorance is indeed bliss.”

His eyes widen at that, unsure of what she means. Mind blank with annoyance, he’s uncertain about what she picked up even while racking his brain for a possible question.

Missouri’s smile is sad when she takes his face in her hands. They feel warm against his cheeks. “Being unaware of questions doesn’t mean they aren’t there. Sometimes, those speak the loudest.”

He searches through his mind for the most prominent inquiry he can find. What he stumbles upon leaves him feeling taciturn. The look on Missouri’s face says enough on the subject.

The text message on Emily’s phone the night she went out.

“It wasn’t your fault. It will never be your fault. Heaven knows I’m not trying to justify the things she did, but she did love you, although her actions were misguided and most likely done out of anger.”

Castiel’s eyes sting at the knowledge he’s tried so hard to write off as just another rumor his neighbors loved to gossip about. “Why would she…?”

“I’m afraid that that’s one question I won’t be able to answer.”

For all of the love and devotion he had shown her, she still sought comfort in someone else. Taking a steadying breath, he lifts his chin. “I would never.”

Missouri squeezes his cheeks. “That is why they will always hunger for your light.”

No other words are exchanged, but Castiel leans down and kisses her cheek: a grateful gesture.

The country music coming from the radio is the only thing that interrupts the silence during the drive back to town. A light flurry of snow cascades down on them, but so far, Castiel is underwhelmed by the bad weather the newscaster announced would arrive before the main storm.

Castiel stares out of the window, trying to see the tops of the towering pines that line the deserted road against the black sky, and finds that there isn’t a single star in sight. He holds the bag close to his body and sighs, feeling miserable in his damp socks.


	4. The Past

_Let it free, oh Lord!_

_Go along and open the door!_

_One, two, three, four—_

_Go along and open the door._

Colors mix and water fills his lungs.

•••

The weather decides to worsen three days later, on All Hallows Eve.

Gray skies and fierce waves are what Castiel wakes up to, the windows frosty and the ledges peppered with a hint of snow. Lenore is curled against his hip.

Without any pressing appointments, Castiel doesn’t worry about hurrying out of bed. Instead, he stretches in place and lets the sheets drag along his bare chest. As if on cue, his phone vibrates.

_Mornin’. On my way back to the island._

Rubbing sleep away from his eyes, Castiel crosses his legs. He can’t remember the last time he’d had a lazy Sunday morning.

 _Just in time,_ he sends, scratching idly at his belly.

Lenore wakes up with a toothy yawn and immediately starts pawing his side.

_How’s the weather?_

Thunder rumbles in the distance. _Still tame, but not for long._

He’s half naked, in bed, texting Dean Winchester without even having his first cup of coffee. He smiles at the realization, and his morning erection throbs inside his tenting boxers.

Startling Lenore, he gets up and heads for the shower.

Coming to terms with this attraction was one thing, acting on it was another thing entirely. Baby steps, Balthazar had said the night they drove back from Moseley’s, and for once Castiel intends to listen.

Staying as far away from full bathtubs as physically possible, Castiel opts for a cold shower. Hissing at the first contact of freezing water on still bed-warm skin, Castiel eases under the spray.

The phone vibrates from where he left it on the sink. He had intended to answer it only after he’d showered, but he reaches for it anyway.

_Bought a few beers. Mind if I come over tonight?_

“Shit,” Castiel mutters. Traitorously, his mind supplies him with a dozen fantasies or so in less than five seconds.

Fumbling, he manages to cut off the water without wetting the phone. He slips on the tile as he tries to hurriedly put on his boxers, jogging pants, and a plain gray t-shirt before his hands wander into dangerous territory.

 _Only if you bring pizza,_ Castiel writes back, then thinks better of it. _Make that hamburgers, actually. And you’ve got yourself a deal._

While waiting for a reply, he brushes his teeth, combs his hair, and jogs down the stairwell and into his kitchen for his first hit of coffee. The day ahead will most likely be dull, with some last minute check-ups along the house to see if everything is in its proper place before the storm hits.

He remembers last night’s conversation with Balthazar, and he decides to ask Dean instead. _Do you know how to work back-up generators?_

Sitting on the counter, Castiel watches the coffee drip, patiently waiting for the reply. He makes note to buy a new percolator, since the one he brought from California keeps malfunctioning. It takes several shakes and taps to get the thing brewing.

The plastic sheeting Castiel had paid to have installed around the house yesterday blocks out the sound of waves. The sight of the waves crashing brutally into the lighthouse is so awe-inspiring that he makes note to snap a few pictures when he has the chance.

_Of course I know. Hamburgers it is._

Castiel nods down at his phone and moves to prepare his coffee.

•••

Around noon, the first heavy snowfall has Castiel shivering as he trudges around outside, closing up the tables and chairs and storing them in the garage.

He takes his photos and makes a mental note to send them to his agent as visual companions to his novel. His novel—the synopsis of which is still waiting, unfinished, on his computer.

On Friday morning he had emailed his agent and editor to tell them that he was currently sick and couldn’t make the chat. They excused him, and rescheduled for the following weekend.

Castiel has the motivation and the idea, he just doesn’t know how to approach it yet.

•••

It isn’t a date, Castiel reminds himself for the umpteenth time that afternoon, while he takes the pumpkin pie out of the oven and sets it on the counter to cool.

He’s dressed in his best clothing; casual and comfortable, but presentable. The button-down is well-worn, the cotton is soft and easy to move in, despite having it tucked into his slacks. He’d called Balthazar to ask if a sweater vest was overdoing it, but he assured that the articles of clothing don’t matter as long as he ‘plays it smooth’. Castiel thought it had looked cozy, so he stuck to it.

 _It isn’t a date_ , and Castiel certainly isn’t trying too hard to impress, even if he did take ten minutes to decide whether to wear moccasins or just walk around with socked feet. He will forever deny dabbing cologne behind his ears, and combing his hair.

All right, it’s most definitely a date, Castiel finally concedes, and he can’t help the fluttering that starts in his stomach.

Lenore lounges on the couch, watching him walk back and forth, setting last minute things into place.

It’s four o’clock when the knock on the door comes, and Castiel starts, nervously straightening out his sweater vest.

He’s way too old for this.

Clearing his throat and giving Lenore a hopeful smile, he opens the front door.

“Meg?”

Meg stands at his doorstep, bundled up in coats and scarfs. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose look red as she cocks her head to the side, playful grin spreading while she looks him up and down.

“Am I late for the party?”

Castiel shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “No, not—”

She walks past him and starts shedding her layers, hanging them on the coat rack by the door. “I like what you’ve done with the place. It’s very ‘I’m a writer, please do not disturb’. Very you; especially with all the blue.”

“Thank you,” he says unsurely, casting frequent looks towards the front door. “Not to be rude or anything… just curious. Why are you here?”

Meg turns to him with a raised eyebrow. “I don’t think there’s a ‘not rude’ way to ask that, but you get brownie points for trying.” Her grin is slightly forced. “You didn’t show up on Friday.”

It takes Castiel a moment to get what she means, and when he does, he feels like the biggest jerk to ever walk the planet. He opens his mouth to apologize, to say anything, but nothing comes out.

“Don’t strain yourself, kiddo. At least the barista was kind enough to get me a mocha on the house for getting stood up. You should have seen him,” she adds, as an afterthought. “Guy was freakishly tall.”

“Meg, I am so sorry. I just… I don’t know… I rarely forget about any of my appointments.”

“Appointments? Ouch, don’t make it sound so professional.”

“I really, truly, am sorry. I promise to make it up to you.”

“You can bet on that.” She grabs his wrist and tries to pull him to the door, but stumbles when he doesn’t move. “This is the part where you frolic by my side and we go out on a ridiculously rom-com date.”

Castiel searches for the words to say, but they fail him once more. He slowly pulls his hand from Meg’s hold.

“Oh,” she says, the dark waves of her hair bouncing as she gives an incredulous laugh. “So it’s like that, huh? Get a girl’s hopes up and then stand her up? Twice in a row? Just like high school?”

“We’ve been through this,” Castiel says, biting on the defensive while trying to be kind still. “I told you.”

“Two weeks before. I had to stay home because every other guy already had a date and you just had to take your precious Emily to prom.”

“If you’re trying to guilt-trip me, it’s not going to work. I feel terrible for not showing up on Friday, but I don’t regret what I did back then.”

“Really? Let me guess, because you settled down, got married, had a kid, and what happens after, huh? You forgot about that chapter of the story?”

Castiel recoils as if burned. “Don’t. Don’t you dare.”

“What are you gonna do? Pretend that nothing happened, as usual? Turn a blind eye and make believe that everything is rose-colored rainbows? You seem to be good at that.”

“Stop,” Castiel bites out, desperately clawing for a breath of fresh air. “We’re adults. Why the hell are we bickering like children?”

“Because some of us never grew up,” she snarls, shoving him hard against his chest. “Because I waited, because I did everything in my power and beyond, and you still broke my heart.”

“Meg—”

“No, you listen to me. This was your last chance, Castiel. I honestly thought, back in the market, that things would actually work out for us. A miraculous second chance or something. Now that everything else is out of the way—”

“Are you listening to yourself?” Castiel feels violently ill, the pressure in his chest hard enough to make his knees quiver, but he stands his ground. “Did it ever occur to you that I tried? That before Emily—”

“I bet that name just tastes sour in your mouth now, does it? Give her your all and the last thing she shoves down her gullet is Roger’s dick.”

The quiet that falls is palpable, and Castiel feels colder than the afternoon air outside his home. His back is stiff against the refrigerator, the soles of his feet sweating against the polished wooden floor. He’s known anger, he’s known hatred, but not like this. The ire that pumps through his veins is almost enough to make him lose control.

“Isn’t it funny how people are so often considered saints after they die?” Meg grins up at him, her body language coy as she walks closer, pressing a hand to his chest and bunching the fabric of the sweater vest between her fingers. “I thought you’d be over this already.”

“It was always your cruelty that pushed everyone away, including me. Emily might not have been perfect, but you are far less than she.” His words are icy. “Now please get out of my house, and don’t ever come back.”

“Baby, you’ve seen nothing yet. Nice cologne, by the way. You smell good enough to eat,” Meg nearly purrs, leaning in to sniff at his neck. She grins when he doesn’t flinch. “At least you grew some balls over the years.”

“I won’t ask again,” he grits out, riding out the anger that constricts his chest.

She only moves away when the front door creaks, revealing a surprised Dean holding a pizza box, a paper bag carrying burgers courtesy of the Roadhouse, and a six-pack of beer. Judging by the look on his face, he’s heard more than he should have. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No,” Castiel says, looking only at Dean as he speaks. “Meg was just on her way out.”

Meg takes a step back, staring from Castiel to Dean, then holding the newcomer’s gaze. She sneers in a way that makes Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. “You have got to be kidding me. This?” She jams her thumb in Dean’s general direction. “This is the reason why you got prettied up?”

“I’ve reason to believe that that is none of your concern,” Castiel replies coolly, walking up to take the six-pack from Dean’s hand. He gives him an embarrassed smile that is thankfully returned with warmth.

“Right.” Smirking at Dean as she makes her way out, Meg stops by the door to finish up her farewell. “Maybe now you can meet the same end your sweet Emily did,” she says, clear and dirty enough for Castiel to get what she exactly means before she grabs her coats and slams the door shut.

Both Castiel and Dean are left standing there, staring at the door.

“I’m sorry you had to witness that,” Castiel finally says, breaking the silence as he moves into the kitchen and leans against the counter, crossing his arms and looking away. “I wasn’t expecting her.”

Dean nods in understanding and finally puts down the box and bags, mindful of the pie that’s cooling on the counter. He visibly struggles for something to say, but Castiel doesn’t push, only waits for him to gather whatever thoughts might have just been triggered by the scene. Licking his lips, Dean finally asks, “You’re a widower?”

Castiel slowly nods.

“Shit, I feel like the biggest dick to ever set foot on land.”

There’s another silence, this one noticeably awkward, before Castiel tries his best to successfully break it. “We should eat before the food gets cold.”

Dean agrees, twirling the chair at the counter to straddle it as he’d done the last time, when he and Cas had devoured the best shrimp stir-fry they’d both had in a while. Now, Castiel sits on the opposite side of the counter, quiet and moody as he fishes the burgers out of the bag.

They eat in silence as dusk settles outside, the already-gray day turning darker. There would be no trick-or-treaters tonight due to the storm, Castiel muses, and is somewhat happy about that. He gets to keep Dean to himself.

“Who was she, anyways?” Dean asks, wiping a blob of ketchup from the corner of his lips.

“Acquaintance,” Castiel clarifies, hoping Dean didn’t get the wrong impression. “We went to high school together. It’s been years and I promised to take her out for a drink, to catch up.” He gets up to take the beers out of the fridge. “I completely forgot about it, though.”

Dean snorts. “You stood her up?”

“Not intentionally, honestly. Normally I’m punctual with my appointments, not quite sure what’s gotten into me.” Castiel uncaps the bottles with the hem of his sweater vest and sets them on the table. “Too much on my plate, I guess.”

“Sounds like she’s holding a major grudge, too. What’d you do? Break her nail?”

“Meg isn’t that superficial,” Castiel says, not understanding why Dean would even suggest that. “She’s the exact opposite. But I don’t know what happened after graduation. She just… dropped off the map.”

“What’d you do after graduation?”

“Went to college. I majored in business but I was never able to land a job after that, so I became an off-the-book accountant of sorts. I got married, had a kid, a dog, white-picket fence, so on so forth.”

Dean steadily looks Castiel over while taking a swig of his beer. “Did it work out?” The question is tense, as if he doesn’t know how to approach the subject. Castiel smiles and gives him points for trying.

“For the most part,” Castiel says, voice small against the chilled bottle. “We sold the American Dream image pretty well, given that I bought into it myself.”

“What happened to your kid?”

“The food’s getting cold.”

Dean lets it go and reaches for the pizza box. “I got extra cheese since I didn’t know if you wanted any. Normally I would have gone for all the meats, but that’s just me. Brought your burgers, though.”

“It’s fine.” Castiel reaches for a slice, thinking that he’ll save those burgers for tomorrow’s lunch, but his hand falls away at mid-motion. He slumps in his chair and rubs at his eyes. “This isn’t how I expected this evening to go.”

“Hey, hey, the night is young. Hell, it’s not even five o’clock yet, we can still salvage it,” Dean says, nudging the pizza box closer to Castiel. “Come on, Cas. Don’t let some girl ruin our—” He hesitates before finishing the sentence, “our friendly night in.”

“You can say ‘date’.”

“Last time I even hinted at anything you-and-me, you threatened to call the cops.”

“Well,” Castiel starts, tapping the bottle’s neck against his lips. _You were a complete douchebag._ “I am a changed man.”

Dean looks at him, long and thoughtful, before the expression of mild apprehension begins to fade, replaced with a more amused one. His green eyes darken around the edges, and the strangeness of that makes Castiel shift in his seat. 

“How changed is ‘changed’?” Dean says.

Ducking his head, flustered, Castiel clears his throat. “I’m not sure of the degree quite yet, I’m afraid.” His eyes widen when Dean’s fingers touch the back of his hand, fleeting but blunt, like a promise.

“We’ve got all night to find out, Cas. Your pace, I promise,” Dean says, eyes sharp. He takes his hand away and casually sits back, knees knocked apart, bottle of beer strategically placed. His grin is innocent enough, but his body language is an invitation Castiel has no idea what to do with.

Castiel is certain that his face is red, it surely feels hot, maybe it’s the beer or the fact that Dean bluntly prepositioned him, but there’s a sliver of arousal just waiting to be released. His chest feels warm and his knees weak, and one crude thought is all he needs—

“That whole staring thing can be pretty unnerving. You do that a lot.”

Castiel blinks and immediately looks away. “So my brothers say.”

Dean straightens up at that. “You’ve got siblings?”

“Two brothers and a sister, all of them older.”

“You guys close?”

“Only Anna and I. Gabriel occasionally calls, but it’s rare. And Michael thinks he’s too good to get in contact with any of us. I know its Father’s fault that he turned out to be such a jerk, but at least the rest of us try and be a family.” Castiel reaches for a slice of pizza, which is surprisingly still hot.

Dean looks thoughtful. “I don’t think I could handle having such a divided family.”

“You mentioned a brother.”

“It’s just Sammy, Dad, and me. We bump heads a dozen times a month, but… we’re good. We’re always good.”

The way he says it makes Castiel huff out a breath. “That doesn’t sound too convincing.”

Leaning against the counter and grabbing a slice for himself, Dean scratches at the scruff on his cheek. “Sam doesn’t want to tag along with the family business, and Dad isn’t too happy about that. It’s been a messy past couple of weeks.”

Castiel nods. “I guess we both have stressful stuff to deal with.”

“Speaking of, how’s your story coming along?”

Dean is awful at small talk, Castiel thinks, but there’s a certain charm to it that makes him feel at ease. “Terrible,” he says with a laugh, before getting up and walking to the sink to fetch some clean plates for the pie. “The cursor mocks me.”

The chair scrapes against the tile behind him, and Castiel shifts his weight when Dean leans against the sink, personal space nonexistent. “There isn’t an artistic bone in my body, but I’ll be glad to help if you need it.”

“Hm.” Castiel reaches for two plates and sets them by the stove, but doesn’t turn away. “I think you’d prove to be more of a distraction than anything.”

“I know I may not look like it, but I am capable of engaging conversations,” Dean says with a wink.

“What do you know about science fiction?”

“Star Trek is better than Star Wars.”

“Fair enough,” Castiel concedes, subtly inching closer to Dean. “I might just take you up on your offer, Winchester.”

“Your story is sci-fi, then. Drama, horror, comedy, or new age?”

“Still haven’t decided.”

“Go with new age, make both leads male, oh, and make sure there’s a profound bond between them. Lots of sexual tension and longing looks, bonus points if one of them stares a lot.”

Castiel genuinely grins, his cheeks nearly hurting at the impromptu exercise they’re getting. “You’re something else, Dean.”

“You have no idea,” Dean rasps out, just over Castiel’s ear, making the him flinch and gasp when he’s bodily maneuvered against the kitchen wall, Dean’s body pressed flush against his.

“Dean,” Castiel mutters, but he has no idea what else he intends to say. His body thrums with so much heat it threatens to consume him, and Dean stares at him, his hands firmly on the small of his back. Castiel fights the urge to give in, to shed clothes and ravish those thick lips until he can no longer remember his own name.

“You look nice,” Dean says, face hovering just inches away from Castiel’s. “Dorky sweater vest included.” His fingers begin to knead at the muscles of Castiel’s back, making Castiel’s knees tremble with want.

His resolve caves when the hand still on his back slips lower to cup Castiel’s ass. “Christ, Dean…”

“Aw, man. I’m such a sucker for baby blues,” Dean counters, bumping the tips of their noses together.

Castiel accidentally grinds into him with a gasp, torn between feeling surprised and insulted by the lack of physical arousal coming from Dean. He glares at the man, but Dean’s smirk doesn’t budge.

“I’ve got something called self-control. Damn Cas, you’re acting like a horny teenager.” Castiel curses him under his breath. “Unfortunately for you, I don’t kiss on the first date.”

Dean pulls away, leaving Castiel feeling devastated at the loss and ashamed at his body’s reaction. He can feel the brunt of years of abstinence rearing its ugly head, but he’s deliriously happy that Dean is keeping his cool. After all, Dean still is a stranger—well, to some extent.

Struggling to regain his breath, Castiel nods jerkily and pushes himself away from the wall to clean up the counter. It’s when he’s picking up the empty beer bottles that he feels Dean suck a light kiss just beneath his ear, stubble tickling the sensitive skin there, and strong arms around his waist.

“It’s not that I don’t want you,” Dean whispers, rubbing his face along Castiel’s neck, their stubble catching. “I really fucking do, Cas. But there’s a shit-ton of stuff that still needs to get sorted out between us, and I don’t want to fuck this up.”

Castiel leans back against Dean’s chest, placing his hands over Dean’s. He takes a deep breath and squeezes his fingers. “You’re absolutely right.”

Dean squeezes him back, which makes Castiel honest-to-God giggle, before Dean steps away. “Snow’s getting heavy, I’m gonna go see if the backup generator is up for powering this place. You should go freshen up on the meantime,” Dean says with a cough.

 _You should go clean those pipes_ , Castiel’s mind automatically corrects, and he clears his throat. “That sounds like a good idea. You can get to it through the garage. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He hands Dean the keys to the garage and hurriedly makes his way up the stairs to the bathroom.

Locking the door behind him, Castiel hears Dean walk out the front door.

“Fuck. Fuck,” he mutters once and again, undoing his button and fly while standing over the toilet, letting his cock spring free from its confines. Castiel hisses, hips instinctively bucking for relief.

He can’t remember when the last time he’d been this hard was, but Christ, he _loves_ it. There’s something about seeing himself fully erect, the tip of his cock pink and smudged with precome, that makes his stomach stir with even more heat than before. The fact that Dean made him like this makes it twitch. It’s exciting, nerve-wracking and intoxicating all at once and Castiel’s hips hump thin air just thinking about it.

Squeezing his tip, Castiel’s chin tilts downward, mouth open in a silent moan. The pleasure drives him to blindly stroke himself, but two pumps later and he’s pulling his hand away, refusing to get off just yet.

Thighs quivering, Castiel tucks himself away, careful to not catch his zipper. He palms himself over his pants and turns on the faucet, splashing cold water over his face. Pupils blown and cheeks red, Castiel nods in affirmation. He stands there for a couple of minutes, lets the white-hot arousal simmer down to something bearable when he washes his face again. He combs his hair and straightens himself out, just as presentable as he was before Meg barged in through the door.

He takes a couple of aspirins for good measure. That ought to keep the blue balls at bay.

By the time Castiel walks back downstairs, Dean is already inside, lounging in his jeans and a gray henley as he looks through the records mounted on the living room wall. He looks relaxed, like he’s done this dozens of times, and Castiel sighs at the flicker of emotion it sparks inside him.

“Please give me some good news,” Castiel says, bringing the pie and utensils into the living room with him.

“Hinges were rusty, but I found a can of WD-40 in the garage. It should run nice and smooth if the power goes out.” Dean turns to him, his cheeks still pink from the cold outside. It brings out the green of his eyes. “You’re set to weather the storm.”

As Castiel sets the pie on the coffee table, Dean sweeps over to him. “You made this?”

Castiel cuts into it and serves Dean a slice. “Just this morning.”

“You baked me a pie?” Dean asks with a hint of disbelief, eyes round like a child’s on Christmas morning. “Man, I know it’s still too early but… mind if I keep you?”

Blank-faced, Castiel sits on the floor with his own slice. “Sorry, but I don’t say on the first date.” The mask slips the moment he finishes the thought, and ends up laughing when Dean playfully shoves his head.

“Aren’t you a smartass.”

“So, Dean, see anything you like?” Castiel gestures over to his records with his fork. Behind him, he can hear Dean moaning as he bites into his pie.

“There’s a lot of jazz up there, you never struck me as the type. There _is_ an original copy of The Rolling Stones’ vinyl up there, so you are forgiven.”

Castiel hums his appreciation. “It was a very good album. I do listen to a bit of everything, I’m not picky. Jazz helps me concentrate on work; Emily introduced me to it.”

“Your wife?”

Nodding, Castiel stretches out his legs. “She was into a lot of vintage stuff, so it kind of rubbed off on me. Not that I mind.”

They eat in silence, both engrossed in their slices of creamy pastry.

After the scrape of a fork against plate, signaling that Dean has finished his piece, Dean asks, “How was she?”

Castiel draws aimless circles over the pumpkin with the tip of his fork, pondering a proper answer. He chooses his words carefully, mindful of Dean’s gaze on him. “She was quiet, always kept to herself even when things turned difficult. Not that she was proud, or shy, she just… Emily was strange. Charming, dare I say.”

Dean hesitates, and even without Castiel being able to see him, he could hear it in the shuffle of his clothing. “What Meg said before she left, about the whole... cheating... thing, don’t think that I’ll, uh, think less of her or anything.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “Shut up, Dean.”

“Will do.”

“I’m not upset about it, I couldn’t care less about what you think of her. She’s dead and there’s nothing I can do about that.”

“In that case, it was a real dick move of her. Not to judge, I mean, I don’t know jack squat about what happened, but infidelity is so unnecessary. It pisses me off.”

A tense silence follows, only interrupted by thunder. Dean will have to leave soon, before the storm becomes too severe to drive in.

“I lost my job,” Castiel says, setting the plate aside and pulling his legs to his chest. “Jeremy was going to start school in a couple of weeks. It wasn’t bad while I was collecting unemployment checks, but those weren’t enough to support my family, and I couldn’t land another job for some damn reason. Emily was a good sport, tried cheering me up but…” He fiddles with a thread on his pants. “I was so consumed in my self-loathing that I just pushed her away.”

He moves to the side when Dean slips down from the sofa to join him on the floor. Carefully, Dean put his arm around Castiel’s shoulder, settling snug against his side. Castiel goes willingly, and inhales the scent of pine, ocean and snow that lingers on Dean’s neck.

“I just… I gave up. It didn’t matter what she did or said, I just didn’t feel like going out or talking or being intimate. Regardless of what everyone says, it is my fault because I did push her away. I was too selfish to take her needs into consideration. I can’t blame her for sleeping with anyone else, for seeking comfort when I refused to give it to her.”

Dean’s hand rubs absent circles along Castiel’s shoulder, coaxing the breaking words out of him. “The last time I saw her, we got into a big argument because the cable company interrupted our television signal and Jeremy couldn’t get to sleep. She walked out and I put a movie on for him, he kept complaining about nightmares and a masked man standing outside his window.

“I insisted that there was no one there. Everyone said that he was calling for attention, that stress and arguments in the household could cause a child to create stories about immediate perils.” Castiel’s voice breaks, eyes stinging at the memory.

“I waited for Emily to come back until I couldn’t stay awake anymore. But then something woke me up, and hell if I can remember what it was. I heard the front door open but our car wasn’t in the driveway, and when I went for my gun it wasn’t there. I barged into Jeremy’s room and he wasn’t there either and…— _Christ_ , you don’t know how terrified I was, Dean.

“I ran outside and everything was so surreal. Like it all was moving in slow motion and my mind still hadn’t caught up with what it was seeing.” Taking a deep breath and wiping away the tears pooling in his eyes, Castiel presses himself closer to Dean’s side. The fear of that night is so vivid that he loathes to look back on it.

“What was it?” Dean’s voice is small against Castiel’s temple.

“All these years and I still think that I’ve gone completely insane. My therapist insists that it’s PTSD distorting that night’s events but… I know what I saw, Dean. I know because I saw that thing lift up my son by his arm and—” The agonized sob that breaks out of Castiel’s mouth is enough to make Dean’s embrace tighten tenfold, unforgiving and soothing all at once.

Dean shushes him, rocking him back and forth like one would do a child, but Castiel doesn’t complain. There’s safety in Dean’s arms, something Castiel has desperately longed for far longer than he cares to admit. He cries freely onto his shoulder, struggling for breath.

“It gets easier,” Dean says, hushed and tender. “When you talk about it, it gets easier.”

Sniffing, Castiel snorts. “You don’t know what I saw.”

“I lost my mom to a fire when I was four. Dad always said that she was sound asleep when it happened, that she didn’t suffer.”

Castiel looks up at him then, eyebrows pinched. “You don’t believe that.”

“I saw her, Cas, pinned to the ceiling of my brother’s nursery.”

Wide eyed and stunned, Castiel can’t find it in him to call Dean a liar. The pain in those eyes is far too genuine, and similar to the one he sees in his own every time he stands before the mirror.

“Believe in it or don’t, but there are things that go bump in the night. We’re just some of the unlucky few who’ve experienced it firsthand.”

Castiel sighs and fists his hand against Dean’s thigh. “There was a person dressed in black, and it looked like… shadowy tendrils were coming from out of its body. It wore a mask, white and plain, but it had two black holes for eyes. There was a streak of red on it and…” Running a hand over his mouth, Castiel inhales sharply. “I knew it was blood, and I knew who it belonged to. Just like that, it’s gone. It’s gone and my baby is on the ground with a fucking stake in his chest.”

Dean’s eyes are shocked and wild. “And they told you it was PTSD?”

“Maybe it was? I don’t know, Dean. It was dark. Two hours later I got the call that my wife was found dead in some alley, without clothes and her chest ripped open. I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised it this was my head playing tricks on me, trying to cope. It’s easier to believe that a monster did these things rather than an actual human being.”

The wind is picking up outside, shaking the oaks and making the wooden house shiver and creak against its force.

“I’m guessing you didn’t sleep for months,” Dean mumbles, his breath agitating the hair on top of Castiel’s head.

Castiel laughs bitterly, squeezing his eyes shut. “Zolpidem is terribly addictive.” Dean doesn’t press, just holds him there, on the floor of his living room, pumpkin pie forgotten.

“This storm’s really picking up, huh." They both listen to the howling wind for a long moment, before Dean continues, "I haven’t had the chance to change baby’s tires yet. Maybe I should, um...”

“Of course, safety first.”

But neither of them move.

Dean’s hands skim along Castiel’s back and sides, soothing and languid as he hums a song Castiel can’t quite place, but he knows is familiar.

 _Take a sad song, and make it better…_ Before Castiel knows it, Dean is whispering the words into his hair.

The need to stay by Dean’s side hits Castiel with a strength to be frightened of, smack in the middle of his chest, leaving him short of breath around the knot in his throat. Dean is comfort and warmth, a solid presence that doesn’t think him insane or disturbed. Dean wants him, something Castiel hasn’t experienced in a long time. He can think clearly even with the haze of lust the man constantly triggers. Dean makes the day brighter, the air sweeter, and life just a little more worth living.

Castiel can feel himself falling, and hard, as Dean sings under his breath, giving him gooseflesh and setting his soul alight with a song he hasn’t heard since his elementary school days.

“ _The minute you let her under your skin_ ,” Castiel chimes in, raspy and unsteady, when the hand caressing his side moves up to cup his cheek.

“ _Then you begin to make it better_ ,” Dean finishes, smiling as he steals a kiss from Castiel’s lips, chaste and gentle.

The lights surge and Castiel hates that Dean pulls away, frowning as he looks out the window to gauge the strength of the wind and snow. “You should get going before it gets too dangerous to drive.”

Licking his lips, Dean nods his head and stands up, stretching out a hand for Castiel to take.

They both take the plates and leftover pie into the kitchen, setting them on the counter before Dean moves over to the door to slip on his jackets. Castiel stands by, watching him move into the layers of cotton and leather that don’t look warm enough for this kind of weather.

“Call me if you need anything, Cas. I’m just a car drive away.”

“I will,” he assures him, and offers him a closed-mouthed smile when Dean moves in to hug him one more time, arms tight and hands strong where they wrap around Castiel’s waist. “Thank you for the lovely time.”

“You mean the cockteasing and sharing of traumatic life experiences? Anytime, man.” Dean sucks a kiss onto Castiel’s neck. “Chances of a second date?”

“Pretty high,” Castiel mutters breathlessly, fingers tugging on the hair at Dean’s nape.

Bumping foreheads, Dean finally steps away. “I’ll catch you later. Be safe.”

Castiel opens the door, hiding behind it to block off the offending cold. “Let me know when you get home, all right?” He is so fucking whipped Castiel can’t believe the words that are coming out of his own mouth. “I don’t think I’d be able to sleep knowing you’re still on the road.”

Stepping outside and pulling the jackets closer over his neck, Dean winks at him. “One phone sex session coming right up.” With that, he walks into the falling snow.

Closing the door, Castiel doesn’t watch him go.

Humming absently, skidding along cloud nine, Castiel makes for the sink to wash the few dishes they had dirtied that evening.

His hand recoils as if stung, blood running cold when he sees a string of red wrapped around the refrigerator’s handle. Harmless and short, its ends burnt as they hang aimlessly against the stainless steel door.

His thoughts are flung back in time, to the night he’s just finished detailing to Dean. Castiel remembers how unsettling it had been to see red yarn, so harmless and out of place, wrapped around the barrel of his gun. 

Ever since then, the phantom line of red has served as an omen.

Castiel’s eyes dart around the kitchen, dining room and living room, seeing nothing else out of the ordinary. But the terror that runs across his chest like a spike makes him freeze.

In a split second decision he reaches for his phone and, thank God in Heaven, Dean picks up on the second ring. _“Wow, miss me already?”_

“You said to call you if I needed anything, if I’m not mistaken.” Castiel can hear the waves over the line, which means Dean is still right outside his home.

_“Cas, what’s wrong? Open up, I’m still here.”_

Castiel doesn’t move, still rooted on the spot as his hands shake. He thinks about the salt, the sage and the protection charms Missouri gave him a matter of days ago, and he instantly regrets not having used them the moment he had gotten home.

Dean knocks on the door, each rap more frantic than the last.

Talking about it has brought the nightmares back, made them far more vivid that they’d been in a very long time. He can feel the stillness set in, the quiet shifting along with the shadows cast in each corner, reaching for him. The paralyzing fear makes his chest seize up.

“Cas? Castiel! Open the damn door!”

Inhaling sharply, snapping out of his stupor, Castiel trips over his feet, too scared to look down the dark hall as he walks around the counter. He clumsily works the locks on his door and doesn’t have a chance to step back when Dean is already slamming it open, quickly scanning the place as Castiel stays with his back to the door, sweating cold, his eyes wide.

“Cas, hey, are you okay? What is it? What happened?” Dean is kneeling, grabbing at his forearms, and it’s only then that Castiel realizes that he’s hit the floor. “Talk to me, buddy.”

Opening his mouth repeatedly but unable to mutter a word, Castiel curls into himself, shoulders shaking. Dean touches him all over, checking for injuries.

Castiel finally gasps, his brain kicking back into gear, fear melting into panic. He grabs at Dean’s jacket, shaking snow onto the carpet. “Please. Dean, please. Please, please—”

“Take it easy, Cas. Deep breaths, come on. I’m right here.”

“Stay with me tonight, please. Don’t leave me alone.”

“Okay,” Dean immediately agrees. “Okay, I’ll stay with you. I’m right here, nothing’s going to hurt you, okay? Now, breathe.”

Castiel’s back is rigid against the door, arms stiff where they cling to Dean’s jacket for dear life. He struggles to normalize his breathing, staring only at Dean as he does so. Calm eventually washes over him, and he’s maneuvered to his feet and onto a stool. His eyes are still wide, his face most likely devoid of color, judging by how deeply concerned Dean seems as he looks at him.

“I gotta make a phone call, all right, Cas? I’m gonna step right outside but I’m gonna leave the door open, okay? That way you can see me and I can see you. It won’t take long. Just gonna call Sammy and let him know that I won’t be home tonight.” Dean speaks stern enough to make Castiel look up at him. “One minute, that’s it.”

Castiel watches Dean walk back out and grab his phone. 

He speaks hurriedly, although Castiel can hardly hear what he’s saying over the sea and wind. There’s waving hands and noses being pinched, Dean looking annoyed as he paces back and forth. He eventually snaps the phone shut and walks back inside.

“Seventy two seconds,” mutters Castiel. “You were outside for seventy two seconds.”

Dean blinks down at him and gives him a soft smile. “You going to tell me what happened?”

Shuddering, Castiel slowly shakes his head. He closes in on himself, arms and legs tight against his body where he sits on the stool.

“I’m going to go ahead and lock my car in your garage, you hear me, Cas? Three minutes this time. Don’t move.” He doesn’t wait for Castiel’s answer, and leaves the door open as he walks out into the snow again.

Dean returns three minutes later, grinning and shaking his phone. “By the clock.”

Without a word, as soon as Dean locks the door, Castiel stands up and takes him by the wrist, guiding him to the second floor. Dean doesn’t protest, looking everywhere at once as if mapping the place in case of an emergency.

Castiel freezes when the lights flicker and go out, but Dean’s hands are quickly on his back, calming and supportive. They stand in the hallway until the generator switches on, lights and heater coming back to normal.

“I hope this isn’t too forward of me,” Castiel says, but it’s so hushed Dean has to lean close to hear.

When he says nothing further, Dean nods his head. “I don’t mind.” Shutting the curtains to his bedroom, Castiel removes his sweater vest and shoes. “Uh, what do you have in mind?”

Blinking up at Dean, Castiel casts a nervous look around. “A movie.”

“In your bedroom.”

Castiel straightens up, feeling slightly embarrassed. “It feels safer,” he confides, and is relieved when Dean huffs out a laugh in understanding.

Without being asked, Dean sheds his jackets and neatly sets them over a chair. Castiel watches the other man without qualm as he strips down to his jeans, broad freckled back exposed in the pale light of the bedroom. Castiel can’t help licking his lips.

“I can sleep in jeans, but I don’t have my sleepy shirt. Hope you don’t mind sharing the bed with a shirtless stud,” Dean says smoothly, giving Castiel a wink.

“A sleepy shirt?”

“Had it for years. Cotton’s worn to hell, but fuck is it comfortable to sleep in.”

Castiel lifts an eyebrow. “You mean… like a blankie?”

There’s an awkward silence which Dean breaks with a well accented “Fuck you.”

Castiel’s sure Dean hears the laugh he tries to hold back, judging by the smirk he sports while turning away to change out of his button down into something more comfortable. Out of courtesy, Castiel keeps his dressing pants on as he pulls a pajama shirt over his head.

The bed creaks behind him, and Castiel turns to find Dean spread out on the mattress, the taut, pale muscles of his chest and stomach contrasting sharply against the navy blue of Castiel’s sheets. Making the most of the opportunity while Dean stares at the ceiling, Castiel lets his eyes drink in the sharp turns and edges of the man’s body, following the trail of hair that disappears into his jeans.

Castiel’s cock twitches, arousal returning with a vengeance after having it left high and dry earlier that evening. He immediately regrets inviting Dean to stay, especially when they’re to share a bed without actual sex being involved, and Castiel is too scared to walk into his bathroom and jerk off. He looks down at himself, and winces at the tent at his crotch.

Making sure to move stealthily, Castiel succeeds in sitting on his side of the bed before Dean can look elsewhere. Kicking off his shoes and socks, he hurries to hide himself beneath the covers.

Dean scratches absently at the trail of hair, and Castiel thinks he’s about to die from sexual frustration.

“What movie do you plan on us watching?” Dean asks, looking at Castiel. “You got a DVD rack or something?”

Castiel reaches for the remote. “There’s something called Netflix, Dean.”

“Showoff.”

Blessedly, Dean gets up to lock both bedroom doors. He lingers at the one leading to the study, before shutting it and slotting the bolt into place. Castiel watches from the bed as Dean peeks into the closet and secures the windows, before returning to his place on the bed.

“What was all that about?”

“Since you won’t tell me what’s got you all spooked, might as well scope everything before we settle in.”

Castiel worries his lower lip, sinking further into the sheets when Dean joins him. It’s probably too soon to say, but Castiel is sure that, were he to keep anyone by his side, Dean would be it. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Dean says, lounging casually on his side of the bed, bare feet crossed at the ankles.

The man is an Adonis. His skin, eyes, hair, _everything_ , every single inch of him speaks of perfection unlike anything Castiel has ever seen.

Slowly exhaling through his mouth, Castiel settles on his side to hide the embarrassing erection he’s dons. “Is there anything you’d like to watch?”

The grin Dean gives him is filthy. “Oh, I’d like to watch a handful of things.”

Screw twitching, Castiel’s cock _jerks_ at the look. It’s going to be one hell of a long night, and Castiel couldn't think of a better way to spend it. “I can only imagine.”

Dean snatches the remote out of Castiel’s hands, and after a few false tries, he works out how the system works.

Forty-five minutes later, Castiel is wrapped in Dean’s arms, snoring softly as velociraptors sniff for two kids in a kitchen.

•••

Castiel hasn’t the slightest idea how he got so lucky, or why life suddenly decided to make it easier for him to breathe deep every morning when he gets out of bed. He cannot, for the life of him, remember the last time he hummed in the shower, laughed over the phone and stole chaste kisses while shoveling snow off his front yard. In the plague of nightmares that have become a constant over the years, the waking world is now a respite instead of an extension of that dreaded realm inside his mind.

Three dates, countless make-out sessions, and two chapters of his new novel later, Castiel feels at the top of the world.

Castiel is left to wonder just how much longer the pleasant dream will hold.


	5. The Family

Stull Café is a cozy joint on Main Street where hipsters of all ages come to manifest their love for lattes while wearing too-big non-prescription glasses with tiny mustaches hanging from their bridge. Castiel frequented these kinds of places back in San Francisco, if only for the free wi-fi.

Intent on avoiding any repeats of the night at the club, Balthazar treats Castiel to coffee and pastries instead. It’s a pleasant change, preferring the quiet atmosphere complemented by New Age jazz and modern folk music. He’d much rather spend the night working on his latest chapter, but it’s Friday night, and Balthazar insisted on going out to catch up on those last two weeks.

They take a booth by the window.

The snowing has stopped, and the days have been surprisingly clear after the storm that wiped out at least three coastal homes along the northern seaboard. Castiel feels lucky that his home got by with minimal damage.

“Ralph insists we vacation in Florida,” Balthazar says, drawing out his wallet from his coat pocket. “Of course I insisted on Virginia, family and all. He’s hell-bent on getting me to meet his parents, as if we’re teenagers.”

“Why not spend Thanksgiving in Florida, and Christmas in Virginia? You can take a trip to New York for New Years, just the two of you.” Castiel’s suggestion receives a thoughtful hum.

“How are you planning on spending the holidays?”

Walking over to the line of people waiting to order their drinks, Castiel makes an awkward half-shrug. “My… family is spending the weekend on the island.”

Balthazar cringes in sympathy. “You poor creature. Do they know yet?”

Castiel shakes his head. “Anna knows I’m seeing someone, but I’ve been vague on the details.”

Their turn arrives, and Castiel orders a chai tea latte and a strawberry turnover.

“Name?” the barista asks, marker poised over a Styrofoam cup.

“Cas.”

The barista gives him a fleeting look before passing the cup to another of his co-workers. “That wouldn’t be short for ‘Castiel’, would it?”

Castiel nods his head. “That would be correct.”

“Huh, you’re not what I expected at all.”

“Excuse me?”

“Uh, sorry, I’m Sam,” the barista offers with a beaming smile that would put any model to shame. “I’m Dean’s brother.” He holds out his hand, and Castiel promptly shakes it.

Castiel is shocked. There’s a slight resemblance there, but had Sam not mentioned it, Castiel never would have noticed they were related. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sam. You’re not what I was expecting either.”

“Oh, yeah?” Sam chuckles now, moving around to serve Castiel his turnover. “What were you expecting?”

“Well, for one, I thought you’d be… smaller.”

Barking out a laugh, Sam pops the pastry in a small oven. “Five bucks Dean makes it sound like I’m a scrawny fifteen-year-old.”

Castiel can’t help but smile of that, because that’s exactly what he had pictured. “He does speak very highly of you.”

In an attempt to brush off the blush, Sam runs the back of his hand across his forehead, momentarily looking away to hide a smile. “I could say the same about you.” He takes out the turnover and sets it on the table.

Castiel is about to speak, but Balthazar’s hand is on his elbow, pulling him away. “Sorry to interrupt, but you’re holding up the traffic.” He then turns to Sam with a, “I’ll have what he’s having.”

Sam salutes him and repeats the process of heating up turnovers, and if he mumbles under his breath, Castiel doesn’t point it out.

“How’ve you been feeling, Cas?” Balthazar asks out of the blue, leaning against the wall to wait for their drinks. “I see you’ve been out and about, your muse is apparently flowing, getting laid, but have you been sleeping properly?”

Getting a case of severe mood whiplash, Castiel slips his hands into his pockets and looks out the window. It’s a full moon, and it’s illuminating the surrounding clouds quite nicely. “I’ve been good, actually. Not getting laid, but good.”

Balthazar raises a thin eyebrow, scratches at his cheeks. “No sex?”

Castiel jabs him in the ribs, warning him to lower his voice. “No.” His rolls his eyes to stare at the ceiling, where a roly-poly chef holds coffee beans in too-tiny hands and is admiring the Roman Colosseum. “He says it’s too soon.” He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He’s been more relaxed than he’s been in years, but the simmering frustration is always constant.

“Huh, probably winding you up for the big finish. Stock up for a few weeks, and when you finally hit the metaphorical big red button, Cassie, you will see stars.”

Sam knocks twice on the table, placing their cups and turnovers on a tray. “Here you go, guys. Two chai lattes and strawberry turnovers.” He slides a chocolate-chip cookie about the size of Castiel’s palm onto the tray. “On the house.”

Castiel gives him a polite smile. “Thank you, Sam. Again, it’s a pleasure.”

“All mine, Cas. Have a good night.”

They move back to their booth, Balthazar dipping his finger into the melted chocolate of the cookie. “As I was saying—”

“I know what you mean, Balthazar. I’ve read it countless times before. But may I remind you that I’ve been stuck in a dry spell for the better part of six years?”

“Oh, and whose fault is that, I wonder?”

Castiel drops down in the booth, and reaches for his drink. “That’s beside the point.”

“No, it’s not. I’ve been here a while, Castiel. I know the kind of reputation Dean has racked up for himself.” Pausing to pour an extra packet of sugar into his drink and have a taste, Balthazar waves off what Castiel is about to say next. “This tastes glorious. Anyways, as I was saying. I’d be suspicious if Dean wanted to get in your pants say… the day after you met.”

“I’m fairly certain Dean doesn’t want me because of the sex,” Castiel says, poking at his turnover so that the filling seeps out the ends. “And I don’t just mean that because there’s been a surprising lack of it.”

“Why _do_ you say that?”

Castiel takes a deep breath, thinking back to their first date, on how caring Dean had turned out to be. “Because,” he says simply, not comfortable with sharing his more intimate of experiences.

Balthazar eyes him steadily. “Of course this is none of my business, I’m aware. Just curious, is all. You’ve _changed_ over the course of, what, two weeks? I needed to know what sorts of—” he makes a crude gesture with his fingers that has Castiel looking away, the tip of his ears burning, “ _tricks_ , Dean has been doing to you.”

“That was unnecessary.”

“Oh, be quiet.”

The cars drive by in a blur of color, streets wet after scattered rain showers. The night is cold, but it isn’t imposing. Folk music continues to bleed through the speakers while customers argue with Sam over the lack of half-and-half, and they both smirk into their chai lattes.

•••

“You skipped the cranberries.”

“I’m allergic to cranberries.”

“How can someone be allergic to cranberries?” Dean scoffs, sounding personally insulted at the revelation. “That’s like saying you’re allergic to mustard.”

“Some people are allergic to mustard, Dean,” Castiel counters distractedly, scanning along the sauce aisle for anything he can substitute for cranberry sauce. “Besides, it contrasts too sharply with the flavor of the gravy.”

“Whatever you say, Iron Chef.”

Castiel concedes that it’s rather late to do grocery shopping for Thanksgiving dinner, but he had hoped to weasel himself out of the appointment. Unfortunately, the Novaks are a persistent lot, so of course he's stuck into doing it all just a single day before his family flies in. Fortunately, he has one Dean Winchester who is always willing to lend a hand. After the initial bitching over the domesticity the situation presents, he reluctantly agreed to being dragged along.

Dean’s been far too quiet, however, and despite how oblivious Castiel usually is, it is fairly easy to pick up. There’s a slight hunch in his shoulders, and there are bags under his eyes and a lethargic drag in his stride.

“Did you get any sleep last night?”

“Not this again,” Dean mutters, stepping away from the cart to grab a can of apricot sauce. “I’m fine, Cas. Really.” He shows off the can before putting it in the cart. “Not as tangy as cranberry, and I hope no one’s allergic to those as well.”

Castiel frowns, following Dean as he makes his way down the aisle. “I apologize for being concerned about your wellbeing.” The words sound more sarcastic than he intends.

Stopping the cart, Dean throws his hands up in exasperation. “I get it, okay? But pressing me to talk about ‘health’ isn’t gonna get you jack squat. So change the subject.”

Affronted, Castiel squares off his shoulders but doesn’t say a thing. Too familiar with this kind of situation, he’s learned that staying quiet is better than confrontation, or risk getting bloodied fingers all over again. Castiel shoves his hands into his pockets at the thought, unease making him walk away from Dean.

He doesn’t need this. All he’s ever done is worry about people, and all they’ve ever done is lash out at him for doing so.

Castiel starts when Dean grabs him by the elbow, his touch careful as he turns him around. Unblinking eyes look haunted, almost scared, but Castiel has seen that look on too many peoples’ faces to be touched by it. 

“I think we’ve got all I need,” Castiel says, and he can’t help the bitter chuckle he makes at the way he’s phrased it.

“I didn’t mean to yell.”

“No one ever means it, Dean.”

The hand on his elbow drops away as if burned, Dean giving a stiff nod in its wake. “You’ve got everything for the turkey?”

With a half shrug, Castiel continues down the aisle and towards the cashier.

•••

The rest of the day is awkward, Dean trying to help Castiel with things he doesn’t need any help with. He’s trying too hard to make up for what happened at the store, and Castiel has forgiven him, but he insists that it isn’t enough. It’s only when Castiel turns to him with an almost-snarl that Dean takes a step back, and goes off to do yard work instead.

The music isn’t enough to calm him, not when Dean is outside in the cold, raking leaves. He’s grateful for Dean’s help, he is, but the stress of a looming family reunion makes his head throb and his blood pressure skyrocket. He’s spent the better part of his afternoon peeling potatoes, and there’s a therapeutic feeling to it, focusing his attention solely on them.

Lenore rubs against his leg before jumping on the counter beside the sink, trying to fish for the already peeled potatoes floating in the bowl. Castiel flicks wet fingers at her, splashing her face and making her scamper off faster than a speeding bullet. He chuckles, and promises to give her a few extra bits for dinner.

Over and over, Castiel practices how to break the news to his family. How does one tell a conservative family that their youngest son is in a homosexual relationship? Castiel cringes at their plausible reactions. He can already hear Michael preaching from his high horse, and their father sitting quietly at the head of the table, looking down at Castiel with disgust written all over his face. “This is so stupid.”

“What is?”

Castiel jumps, nearly falling off his stool, not having heard Dean come inside. He’s drenched in sweat, a surprising feat given the cold, and has several pieces of dry leaves stuck to his cheeks and neck. It’s quite becoming. “Nothing, I was just thinking about tomorrow’s dinner.”

“Stressing is only going to make it worse.” Opening the refrigerator door, Dean grabs himself a beer. “Stop lingering and move past it.”

“Easy for you to say.” Castiel drops that last potato into the bowl then moves to dry his hands. “Have you ever tried coming out to your family after a lifetime of being coined as straight?” He raises his hand before Dean can retort. “Your devout Christian family, might I add.”

Dean looks affronted. “Dad isn’t Christian but he’s an avid believer in the manly way of doing shit. He’s an ex-Marine, Cas. Guy rips his shirt off and hunts down the neighborhood cat for dinner with his bare hands.”

“Is that some obscure reference?”

“No, it’s not,” Dean says, sighing audibly after taking a swig of his beer.

“What you’re saying is that your father gave you trouble when you came out to him?”

“Coming out wasn’t the problem,” he says, looking dejected. “Dad doesn’t care who I sleep with, so long it doesn’t interfere with the family business.”

Castiel hums his understanding, turning to look at him. “What is the family business, anyways?”

“Fishing.”

It’s the cheesiest thing to say, and it sounds awkward coming from Dean’s mouth the way it did. Raising an incredulous eyebrow, Castiel shakes his head. “Fishing? Fishing is that important to you?”

Dean’s eyes narrow sharply. “It puts food on the table. Not many of us are lucky enough to spend our lives typing away at our computers for a living.”

“Sue me for enjoying my career,” Castiel bites back, annoyed at Dean’s arrogance. It makes Castiel sound inferior, like writing isn’t a real job. God help him, Dean sounds exactly like Castiel’s father.

“You chose your career,” Dean says, bitterness making him avoid Castiel’s eyes, letting him know that he misunderstood Dean’s reply. “My family’s cursed to wallow in the same shit whether we want to or not.”

Castiel lowers his eyes, feeling shame at jumping to conclusions. “Say you’re able to break free of said curse, what would you be?”

“Honestly? I have no fucking idea. I wanted to be everything while growing up, but now it’s… I settled into this. Beating myself over it, thinking about the what-ifs, just wasn’t worth it. I grew up.”

“Humor me here, Dean. If you could be anything, start afresh and make your own life, what would you choose? Off the top of your head, just say it.”

Dean looks him over steadily, brow furrowed. “A cowboy.”

Castiel turns away, trying to hide a grin. “I’m being serious.”

“So am I,” Dean counters, smirking against the neck of his bottle. “Just give me land, long and rolling, with nothing but the sun over my head and the sweat on my back.” His smirk dwindles in intensity, voice turning somber. “Just get me as far away from the water as possible.”

Of all people, Castiel knows the suffocating need to get away as well as he knows the sight of his own face in the mirror. Throughout his teenage years it was ever present, hanging over his head like an omen, pressuring him to the point of breaking. Castiel understands Dean’s need to be free, something Castiel has achieved—but at what price?

“You’re a grown man, Dean. You’re no longer indebted to your father, you can damn well do as you please with your life and there’s nothing he can do about it.”

Dean’s laugh is soft, drowned out when he moves in to press a kiss to Castiel’s mouth. “Dad said you were a bad influence.” Castiel leans up into the kiss from his seat, boldly pushing his tongue past Dean’s lips to gain control.

Castiel pulls away, lips connected by a string of saliva he can’t stop staring at in rapt fascination, until it breaks. “You’ve told your father about me?”

Thumb caressing Castiel’s cheekbone, dragging on his stubble, Dean nods his head. “In passing, at first. But then he started asking questions about why I wasn’t home so often. I told him I was seeing someone.”

“Was that good or bad?”

Dean twists his nose. “Not sure yet. He did threaten to tie cinder blocks to your feet and drop you a few miles off the harbor, but I’ve heard him say worse about people he actually approves of.”

Ignoring the joke, Castiel slumps. “He doesn’t approve of me.”

“He doesn’t approve of anyone that isn’t—” Dean stops himself, blinking at Castiel for a few moments before finishing, “like us.”

“You mean… fishermen?”

“No, more like island folk. Small town kids with straw hats working hard in the summer heat.”

Castiel leans up to swipe his tongue along the seam of Dean’s lips, making them part expectantly, but he doesn’t push forward. “Poppa Winchester isn’t fond of city boys.” His fake accent makes Dean moan.

“Luckily, he isn’t the one sleeping with you.”

“You aren’t sleeping with me either, Dean.”

“We’ve talked about this.”

“Yes, yes, I know.”

Words melt away into the sound of smacking lips, wet and loud once the music stops playing. The teasing touches are a hot dance that threatens to consume Castiel time after time, that he _wants_ to let consume, but Dean always pulls away just moments before they even begin to shed clothes.

A hand begins to fondle Castiel’s ass. 

Each touch makes Castiel throb with want, each kiss makes him whimper with need, and judging from Dean’s reaction, by the way he looks so reluctant to pull away, the same goes for him. Castiel still doesn’t understand why Dean continues to refrain from taking him to bed, but he knows for certain that when the time comes, they will most likely take turns fucking each other till kingdom come.

“Dean, I want you,” Castiel whispers against Dean’s lips, eyes hooded and burning with heat. “God, the very thought of you touching me…” Castiel would fall to his knees for it, beg shamelessly until Dean finally fills him to the brim.

Dean bucks into Castiel, and _oh god_ , he is rock hard against Castiel’s thigh.

“Do I really make you this hard, Dean? Do you really want me just as much as I want you? It feels like it… Just take a look.” His voice sounds like liquid smoke, even to himself, rumbling in his chest and stumbling off his tongue with the desire to _kissbitesuckfuck_ — “Dean… _Dean_ …”

“Fucking _shit_ , Cas, just—” Dean’s whine melts into wanton moan that has Castiel bucking right back. “Fuck… fuck… _fuck_!”

Castiel can see the wet spot forming in his gray jogging pants, cock straining the waistband as he humps Dean’s thigh. There’s too much clothing—too many layers when all he wants is to have Dean’s skin on his. He fumbles, pawing at whatever he can reach while Dean tongue-fucks his mouth.

The string of _finally_ , _fuck_ , and _Dean_ is rudely interrupted when Dean abruptly jerks away, eyes wide and wild, panting hurriedly. Castiel stares at the lump in his jeans, and fights the urge to drop to his knees. “Dean?”

“Dammit, Cas!” He leans against the counter, chest puffing quickly while trying to catch his breath. “Give me a second.”

Incredulous, Castiel scoffs. “You cannot be serious.”

“Not yet—”

“Then when, Dean?! For Christ’s sake, I think I’ve given myself blisters over the course of three weeks.”

“A little while longer,” Dean rasps, straightening himself out while looking down at his boner. “Don’t think I don’t want this.”

“Then, Dean, why can’t we just…” Castiel lets the question fall away, scratching the back of his neck in frustration.

Dean’s hand slides down Castiel’s arm in the least suggestive way possible. “Just a little while longer, Cas. I promise.”

Stilling his pacing to take deep breaths, Castiel shoots Dean a look between annoyance and confusion. “Okay.”

“I gotta go pick Sammy up and tend to a few things,” Dean says while walking to the door and stopping before it to stare at it long and hard. Castiel thinks he’s about to leave when he turns around again, his eyes a little bugged. “I’ll come back tonight, is that all right? Figure you could use a distraction with tomorrow being… well… tomorrow.”

“I’ll be right here. If you don’t find me, check by the lighthouse. I need to get some writing done.”

Dean presses a kiss to Castiel’s temple, fleeting but kind. “See you later.”

Castiel shuts the door when he sees Dean get into the Impala, and retreats to the bathroom to relieve himself.

•••

While growing up, Castiel wanted to be a pirate.

He grew attached to the water at a very early age, something his parents took to heart by enrolling him in swimming lessons when he was in elementary school. By the time he reached high school, he was head of the swimming team, held a local record for fastest swimmer. At one point, Mr. Novak dreamed of seeing his son in the Olympics, but Mrs. Novak saw him as a quiet artist selling his canvases at a New York art gallery.

Castiel was strangely popular back then, being active in both sports and the more artsy of classes, he attracted quite a crowd. Meg once said that his awkward antics, shyness and intellectual demeanor was charming enough to draw in a vast variety of people. It was all well and good, but Castiel treasured his solitude. He liked to think, study, practice chess by himself.

When Castiel grew up, he wanted to be a writer.

So he became one.

There’s a satisfaction to writing that Castiel thrives on, playing roles he is otherwise unable to fill. He can be the pirate, or the thief, or the wizard, the hunter, the angel, a god. So many possibilities, so many dreams, and they are his to own by putting them down into words.

Not for the first time, Castiel considers that the lighthouse is the perfect place for making these characters come to life. It’s magic, it’s real, and it’s his.

Before sitting down with his laptop to spill a few words, he rattles the lighthouse door, in hope that it will finally give―to no avail. Same as always. He pokes around for a few minutes, throws pebbles to make them skip over the water’s placid surface, picks up broken shells and stashes a few in his jeans’ pockets as souvenirs.

Settling on the wet concrete, Castiel types fluidly and beautifully, painting his dystopian world where aliens run errant and a young man with eyes like emeralds hunts them down. Saving people, hunting things… He falls in love with a man (later to be changed to a woman when his first draft is due, or else risk being rejected by his publisher), a bartender that works at some roadside biker bar.

Castiel sits back after getting a good four thousand words in. He’s feeling relaxed thanks to his self-achieved orgasm a few hours ago, but he can already feel his train of thought slowing down to a stop. There’s only so much time before tomorrow’s reunion comes floating back to his mind, and the stress of it makes him groan.

Saving the document and closing his laptop, Castiel starts on his slippery path back to land.

He thinks about how much he wishes summer would hurry up and get here, so he can test the waters for himself. Perhaps invite Dean over on a hot summer night and go for a swim, preferably without any clothes. Grinning at the mental image of the two of them messing around the shore, Castiel slows to a stop.

The sun has already set, but it isn’t dark just yet.

Dusk lingers over the sky, the earth basked in dark colors of gray and blue. The seagulls are quiet, and the rolling waves have lost all sound around him. The trees don’t move, the crickets don’t chirp, and the breeze doesn’t ruffle his hair and coat.

Castiel knows this, the same physical sort of quiet and stillness that makes him want to vomit, but he’s never felt it like this. Not outside his four walls, not so pure, and powerful enough to shake the Earth beneath his feet.

The hairs along his body stand at attention, and he can feel his stomach twisting and kicking when the severe urge to run away becomes too strong to ignore.

_Go along and open the door._

Castiel’s eyes widen because he can feel his feet moving forward, the promise of safety just behind the door of his home.

_Castiel._

He jerks to a stop and turns towards the shore, blood running cold at hearing his name whispered so softly. There’s a disturbance in the water where it was previously calm and serene.

_Castiel._  


_Let it free, oh Lord!_  


The words rob his attention towards his home again, and what Castiel sees makes him feel like screaming.

Along the side of his house, hidden in the rapidly falling darkness, is the dark figure that so often haunts his memories. Just as black, just as imposing, just as evil. Its presence is inky and malevolent, almighty and powerful in ways that defy the laws of reality and imagination. 

It moves without wind, screeches without sound, and before he even knows it, Castiel is running for his front door, taunted by the single, repetitive thought of going inside and getting his gun.

Castiel shouts as the sound of screeching car brakes startle him.

Castiel is on his back, on the Impala’s hood while Dean leans over him, wild-eyed and frowning deeply. 

Castiel blinks up at the sky, dazed and confused. He just ran in front of Dean’s moving car.

“You stupid asshole, fucking son of a bitch! Cas, what the _everloving_ fuck is wrong with you! Are you out of your goddamned mind?!” Dean wrenches him upright, shaking him by the coat. “I could have fucking killed you!”

The hood is warm, heat seeping through Castiel’s jeans, the engine’s vibration echoing deep into his bones.

Before Dean can react, Castiel maneuvers himself free of his hold, laptop now clutched to his chest, and runs towards the house. He ignores the other man’s yelling as he wrenches open the front door, unceremoniously drops his computer onto the counter, and goes for the cabinet beneath his sink. With shaking hands, Castiel pulls out the hand-knitted sack Missouri gave him.

In a rush of adrenaline, he hurriedly goes from door to door and window to window, setting thick lines of salt; when he runs out, he grabs the industrial bags he keeps in his garage. Dean bursts in through the door right when Castiel lights the end of a roll of sage.

“Cas, what the hell, man? What’s gotten into you?” Dean gets shoved aside, Castiel moving around the place as he waves the smoke into the corners of his house. “What is that? What are you doing?”

“Burning sage,” Castiel says, words clipped and jerky as he clumsily moves around, tripping over his own feet. “It’ll keep it out.”

“Keep what out? Cas, what’s going on? What were you running from that made you fucking jump _in front of my car?_ ”

“That thing. That thing is here, Dean. I saw it.”

“What thing?”

“The fucking _thing_ , Dean! I saw it! I saw the mask, the blood, the black things that float around it! It was right next to my fucking house just staring at me, Dean!” Castiel is near the point of hysteria, compelling Dean to grab him by the arms, and gently but firmly try to calm him down. “I don’t know what it’s doing here but I’m not letting it inside my house. This is my house, my home! It violated my sanctuary once, and I’m not letting it do it again!”

“I hear you, Cas. I hear you, okay? Cas—Castiel! Calm down, would you?”

“Not until I’ve smudged every single inch of this place.” Castiel unceremoniously shoves a bundle of sage at Dean’s chest. “Give me a hand.”

Sighing, Dean nods. “If it makes you happy.”

It takes them the better part of twenty minutes before they collapse down on the couch, all curtains drawn, doors triple locked, and alarm set.

Dean looks over a still-shocked Castiel, raising his shirt and patting the side of his thigh to check for any injuries. Dean knows the car didn’t really hit him, but Castiel understands he’ll only be at ease once he’s gone over him thoroughly. Lying back, he lets Dean examine and probe. “Dean, I’m fine.”

“Shut the hell up.”

“Dean—”

“I’m serious, Cas. You almost gave me a fucking heart attack out there.”

Nibbling on his lower lip, Castiel mumbles, “I’m sorry.”

The kiss Dean gives him is hard and bruising, edging on desperate as he clings to him. “You stupid fucking idiot.”

“I’m here. Nothing happened.”

Nose to nose, they breathe each other in, just revelling in each other’s presence. Dean is warm to the touch, making Castiel melt against him. He feels calmer now, steady and grounded, as opposed to the sickening desolation that robbed him of his ability to function.

“I got you something,” Dean says, easing away to pull out a necklace from his jeans’ pocket. “I know you said Missouri got you some protection trinkets, but…” The black strip of leather that hangs from Dean’s fingers dangles with a bronze amulet. The horns on the face make Castiel uneasy, given the situation at hand. “I’d feel better if you wear this. Yeah, I know it looks kinda ominous, but it’s old magic, the good kind.”

Castiel gives him a wary look. “Where’d you get that?”

“Sam gave it to me when we were kids. Legend has it, it will protect its bearer from harm. It also says something about lice, but that’s not important.” Dean leans up and puts the necklace over Castiel’s head. “Don’t lose it, or else risk Sammy coming over and kicking your ass.”

“Thanks,” Castiel says, fingering the cool metal where it rests over his t-shirt. “For the charm, and not thinking I’m crazy.”

Dean chuckles, a hint of mirth hidden behind the layers of concern. “Don’t mention it. Just, try not to jump in front of any more moving cars.”

“No promises,” Castiel jokes, brushing his fingers underneath Dean’s jaw.

The comfort in his muscles isn’t forced, and Castiel marvels at how such a thing is possible. Where he would usually be losing it after such a terrifying episode, he’s perfectly at ease lounging on the couch. Dean is a weight that has flipped Castiel’s world on its axis, making it so much easier to live in.

“I guess I’m staying here tonight, then. Someone’s gotta keep an eye on you. Wouldn’t want to wake up with serious bags under your eyes.”

“I’ll be satisfied with waking up, thank you.” Castiel laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkling as Dean stares up at him with softness in his features. “What is it?”

Dean licks his lips and shuts eyes, struggles for the words he wants to say. Clearing his throat, his runs hands along Castiel’s knees in soothing motions. “Shit, Cas, I don’t even know how to put this into words.”

Frowning, Castiel straightens up. “Dean?”

“Just let me talk, okay? Don’t interrupt me; I’m shit at words and I’ll only end up stopping and not saying anything if you make a joke or something.”

Nodding his head, Castiel settles back down on the sofa. “All right, shoot.”

Dean’s mouth moves but makes no sound. A tongue darts out to wet his lips as he shuts his eyes. He clears his throat, shakes his head, opens his eyes, and laughs uneasily. 

Castiel wants to laugh as well, maybe kiss the flush away, but after a moment of hesitation, Dean takes a deep breath, and finally starts.

“I have no idea what you’ve done to me. Christ, I’ve been thinking about this nonstop, ever since I saw you at the Roadhouse. Fuck if I know what it is, if anything. I mean, you’re awkward and weird, you wear a creeper coat for crying out loud. But there’s… shit, I don’t even know. Your eyes and that stupid smile and the way your eyes crinkle—yeah, like that,” he says with a laugh before continuing. “Dad’s pissed at me, hell, even Sammy is, but… It’s not my fault. I can’t… I don’t know how to… Fuck. What I mean is, I can’t get you out of my damn head, Cas. No matter how much I try, I just can’t.”

Castiel is too confused to properly react. For someone as casual and cool as Dean, it’s rather hard to take such words seriously. Balthazar did well at setting the warning against Dean’s more tasteless traits early on, and not that Castiel thinks he’s lying, it’s hard to believe that such a declaration is genuinely meant for Castiel.

Castiel’s entire life, until he met Emily, consisted of the occasional hook up. It wasn’t anything profound or emotional, just physical attraction and teenage hormones. Seeing Dean in this light makes it a hard pill to swallow.

There’s no denying however, that Castiel’s eyes sting just a little. While the rational part of his brain insists that there has to be something false behind it, the other part whispers that it’s all true, that Dean Winchester truly is smitten with Castiel Novak, the creepy man who writes by lighthouses and thinks that monsters are out to get him.

“Of all things, that wasn’t what I was expecting,” Castiel says, reaching down to caress Dean’s face. “Should you really be speaking while running an adrenaline high?”

There’s a hint of anger behind Dean’s eyes, brief, vanishing just as quickly as it appeared. “Yeah, I guess that could have given the final push. Doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”

“I never said otherwise,” Castiel whispers against Dean’s mouth, sealing it with a kiss. “I guess this is the part where I confess just how much—”

Dean presses another kiss, just as hard and unforgiving as their first shared kiss that evening. “It’s not fair if you say it now,” he teases, taking Castiel’s bottom lip into his mouth and sucking on it. He chuckles once he releases it. “You gotta surprise me, man. Keep me on my toes.”

It’s a load of bullshit, Castiel decides, and he wouldn’t be surprised if the same reason Dean doesn’t want him saying it is the same reason why Dean refuses to undress him.

Long years of well-masked lies have made Castiel cynical and unwilling to accept love confessions served on a silver platter. After the long lists of interested classmates in high school, Meg’s desperate attempt at attention, and Emily’s hollow murmurs of affection, Castiel is done with pretty words that promise comfort.

Dean is not exempt from this. He’s a stranger, and a shady one. No person successful in slipping through the cracks of Castiel’s guard is deserving of easy trust, and Dean has done just that. On and off meetings, text messages, riveting sexual tension, lustful fantasies of hands and heated whispers. Dean isn’t the exception to the rule, but he might as well be, for he has Castiel pining for him like a lovesick teenager.

But it isn’t just lust, Castiel thinks. After years of abstinence, Castiel wants it to be, but it’s not. There’s something sharp, something deeper, an emotion that leaves Castiel reeling from the shock of it. Castiel hesitates to name it, to even acknowledge the deep somersaults his heart does whenever Dean smiles at him, or acts like a smug bastard who knows he’s pulling Castiel apart at the seams.

Castiel hesitates because he’s scared, but it’s a distinct sort of fear. It isn’t doubt, or insecurity. It’s a real, primal fear—like the thought of there being a monster in the closet, only to see its claws opening the doors in the dead of night.

Fear of monsters.

Absurd, but Castiel can only keep himself from thinking so much.

Dean is as elusive as one, after all. He’s much like the ocean, or more like the waves that lap at Castiel’s toes on the unreachable parts of his thoughts. Dean comes and goes, leaving behind seafoam and shells for Castiel to entertain himself with, to pick and collect.

Like a ghost, Dean drifted in and made himself comfortable within the fleshy walls of Castiel’s heart, and carded his fingers through the pulsating veins.

Maybe it’s best not to say it, then. Perhaps Dean is right, and reciprocating the words now will only be untrue and dishonest. Castiel has no doubt that he feels for Dean, strongly, but it all exists behind a veil of confusion, and that won’t do them any good.

Insecure, Castiel feels twenty again, stuck at the intersection of ‘in love’ and ‘in lust’, but this time, he’s mostly leaning towards the former.

The thoughts vanish the moment Dean pulls away to take off his shirt.

Castiel is left gasping, stunned into silence at the sight of a very shirtless Dean. It may not be the first time he’s seen him shirtless, but now there’s no rush, and Castiel can properly appreciate the sight before him. No longer blind with panic, Castiel can finally admire the broadness of his shoulder, the lean muscles of his chest and, most lovely of all, the slight bit of pudge on his stomach.

“Don’t strain yourself there, buddy,” Dean says cockily, his voice slurring in obvious invitation. It’s completely new, and Castiel is thrilled at the chance of finally getting lucky tonight. “I know you like what you see.”

The blood heads south in two seconds flat the moment Dean’s hands start to wander along his own body, slow and teasing, giving Castiel a show that has him throbbing in his jeans. A hand lingering on his fly, Dean bites the corner of his bottom lip, slowly gyrating his hips as he moves to kneel between Castiel’s feet.

“Dean…”

“Just to get your mind off things. Sit back and enjoy the show,” he coos, brazenly grabbing his own clothed cock and giving it a squeeze.

Castiel slides down on the sofa, feet firmly on the floor and knees knocked wide open, exposing the growing bulge between his legs for Dean to see. Eyes hooded, Castiel lets his own hand trail down his chest and under his shirt. “Amaze me, Winchester.”

Dean’s grin is impish, bordering on filthy as he crawls up onto the sofa, straddling Castiel’s hips. 

He keeps still for a long moment, doing nothing but staring into Castiel’s eyes with enough gentleness to make Castiel’s heart ache. There’s a hint of hesitation there, doubt etched between his eyebrows despite the heat in his eyes. “Do you want this?” Dean asks, and he doesn’t move. In fact, Castiel is willing to bet that he’s holding his breath. “I mean really; do you really want it?”

Castiel feels too confused to feel irritated. “Do you really have to ask?”

“Yes. Yeah, I do. And I need you to answer.”

“Dean—”

“Please.”

Dragging his fingers along Dean’s stomach, Castiel nods his head, uncertain. “Yes, I do.” All Castiel wishes is to understand Dean’s hesitation.

Dean nods. “Okay, good. That’s good,” he mumbles, and then chuckles when he brings a hand up to pinch Castiel’s nipple. 

“Now, for the rules,” Dean purrs. Castiel groans, but Dean silences him by grinding down on his crotch. “No touching each other, and I mean hands. We can rub all we want, hell, we can come in our pants, but no touching.”

“You’re trying to kill me.”

“Naw, I’m trying to wind you up, Cas, make you stock up on that frustration until you can’t take it any more. And then, when we finally do fuck, you’ll be coming a fucking river. This is more of a… sneak preview.”

Dean’s mouth is hot where it sucks a bruise on Castiel’s neck, nipping on the delicate skin there and making Castiel grunt with frustrated delight. Those thick lips skim upward, snagging and leaving a wet trail against the stubble of Castiel’s neck and jaw, until they finally overlap Castiel’s own. It’s a slow kiss, lazy but thorough, and they’re both panting by the end of it.

Castiel’s hands land on Dean’s calves, sinking in only to have them shoved off by a tutting Dean. He laces their fingers together for balance, and God help him, Dean starts to move on his lap.

Slow and drawn out, Dean’s hips move forward and backward, around and around. There isn’t much to feel over two layers of denim, but Castiel can see the bulge between Dean’s legs, how it bumps against his own bulge first before pressing flush against his stomach. Back and forth, back and forth; the slow rhythm is just seconds away from driving Castiel absolutely crazy.

Squeezing his fingers, Dean pins Castiel’s hands on the couch’s backrest, well above his head. He leans down, teases at licking Castiel’s mouth, but not quite reaching inside. “You’re so needy, Cas. Just look at you.” He gives his hips a particularly hard thrust.

Castiel keens, fingers flexing and struggling to get free. He needs skin. He needs to free himself and rub his cock against Dean’s. “Dean…”

“Not yet,” Dean chastises, lifting the pressure off Castiel’s crotch.

Finally releasing Castiel’s hands, Dean mutters a sharp, “Don’t you move.”

Once he’s sure Castiel will obey, Dean moves his hands to his own chest. They slide along his stomach, up until they’re toying with his nipples, tugging and twisting, and biting his lip. Dean lets them go south again, slipping a finger beneath the band of his pants and thrusting at a slow pace.

Miraculously, Dean pops the button of his jeans and drags down the zipper.

Castiel’s mouth goes slack at the sight of Dean’s cock, long and slightly curved, its tip a dusky pink. It smears precome as it thwacks against Dean’s stomach, twitching feebly under the intense scrutiny of Castiel’s eyes. “You see what you do to me, Cas? Do you? Just the thought of you makes me this hard.” Dean’s voice is gruff enough to make Castiel whine.

Up and off, much to Castiel’s dismay, Dean kneels on the floor again, between Castiel’s feet.

“I swear to God,” Castiel croaks, leaning up to look down at him, “If you leave me high and dry, never speak to me again.”

Pressing a kiss to Castiel’s knee, Dean chuckles. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Now, pants off.”

Blessing every single living thing, Castiel hurriedly removes his pants, casting them aside without caring where they land. Shoes and underwear go next. He smirks, satisfied by the look on Dean’s face as he sizes up his cock. “Like what you see?” Castel shoots back, and Dean answers by fisting his own cock.

“Jerk yourself off. I want to watch.”

Shivering, Castiel does as he’s told. 

He holds the base of his cock, letting his fingers curl and massage along the wiry hair while he brings down his other hand to fondle his balls. “What’s in it for me?”

Dean fists the tip of his own cock in short, abortive movements. “Besides orgasm?”

Castiel gives himself a long and slow tug, allowing it to slap messily onto his stomach. Seeing that, Dean curses, and Castiel's eyes dim at the sound of it. “Besides orgasm.”

Thinking for a moment, Dean quickens his movement. “Let’s see…” Playfully, Dean licks the length of a finger before sucking it into his mouth, obscenely penetrating his plush lips repeatedly. Winking, he reaches that same hand behind himself, and even though Castiel can’t see it, he knows Dean is pushing the spit-slick finger inside himself. “Hmm…” Dean moans, nearly loses his balance when he tries to lean into both his hands.

Not daring to go there just yet, Castiel instead runs his free hand along his perineum, pressing and jerking at the bolt of pleasure it sends right to his cock. “Fuck.” Dean’s chuckle makes him arch his back.

“That’s it, you’re good… You’re good, Cas. Fuck, you’re more than good… Fucking look at you.” Dean’s mumbles are probably nonsense, spoken in the heat of the moment, but hell if Castiel isn’t getting off on them.

Castiel tugs upward, letting his cock strain straight for Dean to see, and he’s thrilled at the sound of Dean’s hand going faster. He pants, feels his balls tighten and ready for release. This is unlike anything he’s ever done before, and the excitement of it isn’t going to let him last long. “D—Dean…!”

Dean is already looking at him, pupils blown as he inches closer. “Go ahead, come all over my face.”

Castiel comes with a soft gasp, his body tensing and freezing as he holds himself still, releasing thick ropes of come. He opens his eyes to find Dean squinting, semen dripping down one of his eyelashes, nose and across his lips. Castiel cannot find it in him to apologize.

Licking whatever he can reach, Dean comes just a few pumps after, splashing Castiel’s shin.

The pleasure of having Dean’s evidence of release on him is short-lived, as he’s quickly reaching for his discarded t-shirt and wiping Castiel clean. Too sated to properly complain, Castiel lays there and quietly watches Dean dress himself. He smiles, however, when Dean sits by his side and kisses him senseless.

“There’s semen on your face,” Castiel mumbles, dabbing his tongue against a particularly thick speck above Dean’s mouth. “I like it.”

Dean’s body shivers, leaning in to devour Castiel’s mouth like there’s no tomorrow. It’s a mess of teeth and tongue, and Castiel has to pull back for the sake of breathing.

“You should get cleaned up,” Dean says, sounding far too blissed out to put any authority into the demand.

Castiel snorts and kisses him again. “You can use my bathroom if you want. I should have a pair of oversized pajamas you could borrow.”

Grinning, Dean presses a kiss to Castiel’s cheek.

•••

_’One, two, three, four—’_  


_Castiel walks along the water’s edge, cool waves lapping at his feet like a lover’s touch, tender and refreshing. The sand gives way with every step he takes, and the full moon illuminates his path. / ___

___A fire rages in the distance, the smoke filling his nose and mouth, but doesn’t worry about it. The water keeps him safe, keeps the bad things away and threatens to put out the flames that wish to consume him. Peace and comfort, a dreamy kiss that envelops him with warmth and tranquility. The water calls, the water sings, out of tune but beautiful._ _ _

____

_‘Cas.’_  


_He’s a good swimmer, he could make it to the other side if it weren’t so cold and so dark. The water would guide him, bring him home._

_But the fire cracks, wicked and blinding, beautiful in its twisting pyres that reach for the heavens._

_‘Let it free, oh Lord!’_  


_Castiel steps on a line made of red yarn—_

•••

He startles awake when something soft and wet is pressed to his neck, and Castiel instantly decides that being woken up by Dean suckling at his skin is the best thing in the world.

“Dean?”

“Up and at ‘em, sleepy head. I already popped the turkey in the oven, and there’s some leaves that need to be raked. You go make yourself presentable before your folks show up, okay?”

Castiel blinks, sight bleary, hating the sun that’s seeping in through the windows of his bedroom. “What time is it?”

“Almost noon.”

Nodding his head, Castiel stretches like a cat, making Dean chuckle by his ear. Until the words finally sink in, that is. Darting up from bed, Castiel nearly slams face-first into the bedside table. “What do you mean it’s _noon?_ Anna will be here in just two hours, Dean; why the hell did you let me oversleep?”

Putting his hands up in the air, Dean stands up and crosses the room. “I was doing you a favor, man. You looked like you hadn’t slept in days, so I let you snooze for a while. Not like there’s much to do, or anything.”

Letting out a stream of expletives, Castiel wrestles on a pair of pants. “This is ridiculous. I cannot believe this.”

“I’ll go finish up the lawn. And stop freaking out, everything’s under control.”

“Did you put the potatoes to bake?”

“Why the hell would you put potatoes to bake?”

“ _Oven roasted_ red potatoes.”

“Right, point taken. Just… go and get yourself dolled up. I’ll take care of it.”

“Dean—”

“I’m serious, Cas,” Dean says, giving no room for discussing while bumping their noses together. “Go ahead.”

Huffing, Castiel concedes. Dean smacks his cheek lightly, before heading out the bedroom door.

Castiel makes his way to the bathroom, leaves the door wide open despite Dean walking around the house, and stresses endlessly at the fact that he’s two hours away from facing hell. Standing beneath the shower, he scrubs himself clean, making sure to eliminate all remnants of Dean from the night before. He blushes at the memory, but smiles nonetheless.

It wasn’t the kind of sex he’s been expecting, but at least they got near naked and had orgasms in the same room. It was strange, almost detached, no matter how much Castiel sliced and diced the situation and tried to view it from a different angle. They got off, made out, and that was it. The reluctance Dean continues to force between them is starting to get to him, and Castiel has no idea how to deal with that.

He winces when he touches a particularly tender spot while scrubbing his neck, and he shuts his eyes, playing the scene over and over again, how Dean nibbled him awake. Maybe the intimacy isn’t there during sex, but it is when it comes to smaller actions that make Castiel’s stomach flutter.

Once dried and dressed, Castiel walks down into the kitchen, where the smell of roasting turkey and boiling potatoes makes him hum with satisfaction.

Through the kitchen window, he can see Dean raking the leaves into a neat pile beneath the oak, a black bag already half full standing next to him. Castiel’s chest warms at the sight, and can’t really remember how he’s lived so long without someone by his side.

He hasn’t forgotten about Emily or Jeremy, or the six years he spent by himself, with only his misery and pain as companions. He would never forgive himself for what happened that night, would never come to terms with the desolation that two pieces of his soul were buried along with them. But he can breathe, he’s alive, and Dean has become the anchor he’d so desperately needed.

The truth of the matter, plain and simple, is that Castiel needs Dean. He doesn’t know how he got to that point, how such a thing is even possible, but he does. In just a few short weeks, Dean has become a sort of desperately needed lifeline, and it terrifies him, more so than his nightmares.

The timer beeps, drawing Castiel’s attention and returning his thoughts to the impending doom of the Novak family reunion.

Castiel slides a frozen pizza into the oven, pushing the turkey and potatoes over to a side of the rack in order to make space for it, then goes to get properly dressed.

Forty minutes later, while Dean removes the seemingly forgotten pizza and places it on the counter to cool, Castiel comes down, dressed in his finest suit. He grins at the look of awe worn so blatantly on Dean’s face. “You’re staring.”

“With good reason.” Potentially burnt lunch forgotten, Dean closes in on Castiel, wrapping his arms around his waist and inhaling the cologne dabbed behind his ear. “Christ, Cas, you look good enough to eat.”

Boldly, Castiel lets his hands run down to grab Dean’s buttcheeks. “I’m happy to know that you approve.”

Dean grins cheekily, leans away to run a hand along the soft fabric of Castiel’s black suit. He fixes the twisted tie and rests the knot snugly against his collar, before smoothing the crisp white shirt with a worshipful touch. Huffing out a laugh, Dean kisses him. “You’re freaking gorgeous. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Castiel gently pushes Dean against the counter and brings him close, mouthing at his Adam’s apple. “I don’t need anyone to tell me anything.”

Neither can quite tell who kissed who first, but it’s minutes before they pull away, lips swollen and gleaming with saliva. Dean continuously runs his hands through Castiel’s neatly combed hair, making a mess out of the silky smooth tufts.

Castiel groans when his cell phone starts to vibrate a few inches away from them, but immediately freezes, eyes wide in horror, when Dean answers it for him. “You’ve reached Castiel’s phone. He’s a little busy right now, so please leave a message after the beep.” He waits a moment before saying “Beeeeep.”

Unable to move, Castiel watches as Dean nods his head for a few seconds, raising his eyebrows and shrugging. Castiel hisses at Dean to give him the phone, but he only gets a hand to the crotch in turn.

“Easy, just follow the main road until you reach the Linoge and Deveroux intersection. After that, follow the shoreline until you see a sign that says Autumn Hollow. It’s about two minutes of woodland until you find the clearing. You can’t miss it,” Dean explains, still dishing out blissful torture as he palms at Castiel’s groin. “Pleasure’s all mine, ma’am.” There’s a beat before Dean clarifies, “Pleasure’s all mine, Anna,” and hangs up the phone. “That was your sister.”

“Fuck you.”

“I don’t think we have the time. Boat just arrived at the docks, so that gives us about… fifteen minutes before the entire family gets here.” Dean moves his hand away, only to grab Castiel by the ass and slam their bodies together, rubbing fervently. “And yeah, the entire family. High tide today, so it’s the last ride for the next two days.”

Castiel slams their mouths together, all desperate tongue and hurried humping as he fists Dean’s shirt. “You are a terrible human being,” he groans between bites, wanting to sink into Dean’s skin.

Dean laughs, pulling roughly at Castiel’s hair and making him moan. “Only one of those two things is correct, I’m afraid.”

With a willpower grown out of… Castiel isn’t exactly sure what, he pulls away and takes a deep breath. “You really should get going, Dean. If we keep this up, they might catch us in an extremely comprising position.”

Grinning, Dean winks at him. “Hopefully speaking, the cowgirl.”

“Dean,” Castiel warns, heading for the refrigerator and pulling out the bottle of wine. He desperately tries to think of anything that could kill his mood. It’s a hard thing to do given that Dean now walks with an extra swing to his hips. Castiel only notices now that Dean is wearing last night’s jeans.

“Let me help you set the table, and then I’ll be off with nothing but the wind whipping my hair.”

“How dramatic.” Castiel passes the plates to Dean, who does a swift and efficient job of setting them neatly on the table.

Most of the food is ready to be served, but the turkey is still cooking. With the table set, they take three minutes to scoff down some of the burnt pizza in companionable silence. Dean is enough of a gentleman to stop spurring Castiel on.

Dean is about to leave when the sound of slamming car doors startles them both, and the chatter of people makes Castiel’s eyes widen so much they feel as if they’re about to come out of their sockets.

“Okay, definitely less than fifteen minutes,” Dean mutters, trying to adjust his clothing to look at least somewhat presentable to make his exit. A hand on his wrist stops him however. “What?”

Castiel looks shy, averting his eyes to the over-the-top decorations on the table. “You can stay, Dean. If you want. Have dinner with us.”

Dean’s hands falter when he tries to fix Castiel's shirt. His green eyes become wide and childish as they look up at him with a kind of adoration that leaves Castiel reeling.

Dean speaks just as there’s a knock on the door. “Maybe next time, Cas. I’m nowhere near presentable.”

“Like it matters.”

“It does to me, okay?” _I don’t want to make you look bad._ Dean doesn’t say it, but it’s so plainly written across his face that Castiel aches. There’s that small thread of insecurity Castiel thought he had imagined. “I’ll call you tonight so you can fill me in.”

Castiel stops him, presses a tender kiss to his mouth as the knocking continues, louder than before. “Thank you, Dean. For everything.” The sincerity aches in his chest, and he can only hope Dean picks up on it. Judging by the way Dean smiles, eyes soft around their edges as he fixes Castiel’s suit, he does.

“Go get ‘em, tiger.”

Taking a deep breath, Castiel puts on his most respectful smile, and goes to open the door.

The noise multiplies tenfold when Anna and Gabriel burst in, going for Castiel with an energy that makes Dean laugh.

“Little bro, it’s been ages! How’s it hanging?” Gabriel rowdily asks, not giving him a chance to answer before he’s moving over to Dean, extending out his hand. “And who is this interesting piece of male? The name’s Gabriel, but you can call me Gabriel.”

“Dean Winchester,” Dean says, chest puffed and smile smooth, the same charming aura Castiel had experienced the first time they met.

Castiel’s attention is pulled back to the group of people spilling in through his door, but his focus centers on Anna, who is currently giving him a crushing hug he avidly returns. “It’s so nice to see you, Anna.”

“This place is beautiful,” she says, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “It’s like a photographer’s dream.”

“Yes, the view is extremely pleasing here,” and he says so looking at Dean, but thankfully no one seems to notice.

Standing side-by-side just outside his door, waiting for the commotion to die down, well-put and immaculately dressed, are Castiel’s parents.

His mother envelops him in a loving hug, kissing him on the forehead and tapping his cheek. “How are you, honey?”

“I’m good, really good,” Castiel says, unable to bite back the joy he feels at seeing her after so long. “Welcome to my humble home.”

Behind her, tall and exuding enough authority to make Castiel wither, is his father. Castiel lifts his chin and extends his hand, the greeting firm and formal. 

“Son,” he says, and it’s all the greeting Castiel expects to get.

“Sir,” Castiel replies with equal intensity, before turning to the last of his guests standing outside.

Not unlike their father, Michael shakes Castiel’s hand, but is too busy talking on the phone to say anything.

Castiel already wants the day to end.

“You guys can go ahead and settle in the living room, I’ll bring out the snacks in a moment,” Castiel announces, talking far too loud for his liking, in order to be heard over Gabriel’s loud mouth.

“And who is this young man?” Castiel’s mother asks, touching a hand to her chest when Dean leans in to politely kiss her cheek. “Charming young man, better said.”

Everyone in the house turns to look at Castiel expectantly, who shifts awkwardly on the spot. “This is Dean. He’s uh, a friend of mine. He helped me settle in.”

“He’s quite handsome,” Anna says in a way that makes Castiel’s eyebrow twitch. Anna doesn’t flirt, but then again, she doesn’t have to. One look at those dark, fluttering eyelashes and curling red hair, and the world is sent to its knees.

“You’re a sight yourself,” Dean shoots back, but only when the parents have wandered into the living room, Mother Novak too distracted playing with Lenore.

“He was also just leaving,” Castiel interrupts, none-too discreetly grabbing Dean by the arm and dragging him to the door. “I’ll see him out, be right back.” Even Michael has stopped talking on the phone to watch, amused eyebrow raised. Castiel shoves Dean out the door, and is about to close it when Dean grabs his arm and yanks him outside as well. “Dean.”

Stealing a quick kiss, making sure the door is between them and the Novaks, Dean takes a step back, his face annoyed. “What was that all about?”

“Nothing. You said you were leaving, so I hurried it along.”

“And you weren’t the least bit jealous.”

Castiel detects hints of sarcasm, but says nothing on it. “I’ll call you tonight, all right?”

Flexing his fists, Dean nods his head once. “Yeah, okay. Keep a steady head, you hear? Don’t let that bastard intimidate you.” Dean’s fingers tug on the hair at Castiel’s nape, the other hand coming to adjust his tie once again. “You’re the better man here, Cas. Remember that.” Chaste and soft, Dean presses a kiss to Castiel’s mouth.

Jealousy is always so irrational, Castiel admits, trying to remind himself that Dean will always be Dean. Flirting or not, it was Castiel Dean confessed to just last night, on his knees, between his legs. He tries not to get too hot under the collar at the memory. “Drive safe.”

Dean waves at him as he gets behind the wheel of the Impala, makes a U-turn further down the dirt path, and heads towards the main road.

Taking deep, even breaths, Castiel adjusts his jacket and goes back inside.

Gabriel and Anna are the only ones left chatting in the kitchen. He tries to stall by hanging up their coats by the door, but Gabriel is rarely one to let opportunities go by.

“So, Cassie. Dean, huh?”

Internally groaning, Castiel nods. “That would be his name, yes.”

“When you said friends, did you mean ‘let’s hang and watch football’ friends or ‘I just like wearing your clothes especially your pants’ friends?”

As perceptive as always, Castiel thinks, desperately trying to think of a way out of it. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“He’s wearing your shirt and there’s a hickie on your neck. Jesus, what are you, a teenager?” Castiel slaps a hand over his neck, dread making his blood run cold. “Gotcha,” Gabriel quips, snapping his fingers.

Of course it was a joke that Castiel was stupid enough to fall for. “Gabriel, can we not do this?”

“Normally I wouldn’t, but holy hell, man. Guy’s a looker.”

“Gabriel!” Castiel snaps, throwing cautious looks into the living room to see if anyone else would overhear the conversation. It’s bad enough that Anna looks like she’s been slapped across the face. “Let it go.”

“It’s true?” Anna asks, stepping closer to Castiel and toying with his tie. She looks more confused than repulsed, which Castiel considers is probably a good thing. “When you said you were seeing someone, this isn’t what I was expecting.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. I’ve been having trouble coming to terms with it myself.”

“Why a dude, then?” Gabriel prods, shoving his head into the refrigerator and pulling out a cheesecake. “Never thought you’d swing for the other team, bro.”

“Yes, well, I didn’t either.” Scratching the back of his neck, Castiel sighs. “I would appreciate if this could stay between us? I’d like to avoid the death threats by all means necessary.”

Gabriel kicks the refrigerator door shut and balances the cheesecake on his arm as he heads into the living room. “Sure thing, buddy. I’ll take it to the grave.” And Castiel knows he will.

He’s left standing there with Anna, who twirls a lock of her hair, which is almost as red as her cheeks. She looks awfully reserved compared to her usual fiery self, and Castiel can’t pinpoint why that is. He doesn’t really care what his parents and Michael think; Anna and Gabriel however, he holds in high regard.

“How are you, Anna?”

“A bit taken off guard, but nothing I won’t recover from.”

“I truly am sorry I didn’t tell you.”

“Don’t worry about it, Castiel. I understand that sometimes it’s better to play things closer to yourself. What with our family being as special as it is.”

Castiel sighs with relief, and takes out two bottles of beer. Anna rarely drinks, but she won’t hesitate drowning a bottle when tension is running high. Mindful that their parents don’t spot them, Castiel invites her out for a walk.

“Make yourselves at home,” he says politely, peeking into the living room and spotting Michael going through his records. Their mother plays with Lenore’s ears, not that the cat seems to mind.

Castiel hurries out before anyone can protest, and shuts the door behind them.

Anna jogs down onto the shore, bringing the knitted shawl closer around her as she turns and waves lively at Castiel, who’s just two steps behind. Her smile and eyes are bright, a brilliant reminder of home that makes Castiel feel happy. She looks lovely framed by the endless miles of water, and the tall lonely lighthouse off to her left.

“I think we should take a family portrait out here! It’s beautiful.” She has to yell in order to be heard over the waves, at least until Castiel catches up with her.

“I’d rather refrain from any portraits. Please don’t let me relive sixth grade’s pictures.”

Hitting him with the end of her shawl, Anna laughs. “I thought you looked really cute with braces.”

“I beg of you,” Castiel says, nearly jogging as they walk along the shoreline, side by side. Swirling the amber liquid in his bottle, he smiles. “But it is nice here, I’ll admit. The change has done me plenty of good.”

“I can see that,” Anna teases, playfully punching his shoulder. “Are you going to tell me about Dean, or do I need to blackmail it out of you?”

“Somehow, I thought that to be more along Gabriel’s department.”

“Runs in the family, I’m afraid.”

Castiel hums, thankful for the ease that comes with sharing a close bond with his sister. “Dean, um, kind of snuck up on me. To be honest, I’m not entirely sure how we got to this point.”

“Go on.”

Licking his lips, tasting the mixture of salt and beer on them, Castiel buries himself deeper into his coat. “I’m serious, Anna. One moment I wanted nothing to do with him, and the next…” He looks down at his shoes, cheeks reddening and not because of the cold. “The next, happiness came in the form of a mechanic who eats too many burgers and has a classic rock fixation.”

Anna is silent where she walks beside him, humming thoughtfully before taking a swig of her own beer. “I see what you mean about ‘coming out of nowhere’. Three months ago, you didn’t want anything to do with relationships, and all of a sudden you’re swooning and making kissy faces.”

Castiel snorts. “I’m not that far gone.”

“I don’t think you listen to yourself when you talk on the phone. You practically coo whenever you talk about that ‘mysterious somebody’. And your eyes are all big and doe-ish whenever he walks into the room.”

“This only happened once.”

“And that’s enough,” Anna says, walking a few paces before turning to face him. “Don’t misunderstand me, Cas, I’m happy that you’ve found someone in Dean but…”

Sooner or later, Castiel was expecting the infamous Novak family ‘but’. _We agree, but… You father says you can, but… Emily is a very nice girl, but…_ It is always a prelude to harsh and oftentimes unfair judgment. Not that Castiel ever paid much attention to his family’s opinions.

The subject of his current partner being male is one to be breached sooner rather than later, and Castiel isn’t expecting it to be an easy conversation to have. Castiel is unsure of where he stands regarding Dean, constantly torn between feeling head over heels in love, and deep-rooted apprehension. The last thought has no real base or source, it just is. Castiel adores Dean, but something about him doesn’t quite fit.

Feeling tired and defensive, Castiel prompts her to continue. “But?” He knows that single syllable sounds like a challenge, but he can’t find it in him to give a damn.

“But this isn’t like you,” she explains, grabbing on to the folds of his trench coat. “Cas, it took you six months to finally come to terms with your feelings about starting a family. It took you two years to finally get down on one knee and ask Emily to marry you. Your entire life, all you’ve ever done is run away from feelings and needing other people. I thought that after what happened, that you’d…” Anna visibly swallows, eyes sparkling with unshed tears. “I didn’t think that you’d ever recover, Castiel. And yet here you are, madly in love with some guy you’ve only known for a couple of months.”

Cold like ice seeps into Castiel’s bones at her words; at the very real acknowledgment that he’s not the only one who sees it. It’s not a trick of the mind, or the delirium brought by a beautiful face and kindness that only seems to exist on the surface. This is real; this is the foundation of Castiel’s life being demolished within months of meeting Dean.

“I’m not madly in love,” Castiel says, and the argument sounds weak. He no longer knows who he’s trying to fool: his family, or himself.

Anna shakes her head, smiling softly as a seagull calls above head, the wind whipping her hair. “I can see it in your eyes. I don’t know what Dean did to you, but he has you truly, irrevocably, in love.”

This isn’t an accusation, Castiel can see that. Anna looks far too whimsical to think anything ill of the situation, but an errant gear clicks somewhere in Castiel’s mind. Anna is right. There’s nothing remotely normal about this, and thirty odd years of the same practiced defense mechanism firmly in place cannot possibly be dislodged in just two months, no matter how gorgeous those eyes are, or how beautiful that smile is.

Castiel feels cheated.

There’s no way, though he tries, that he can chase the feeling back to its root, but he feels lied to in some way or another. A reclusive writer with social ineptitude landing such a young and dashing social butterfly such as Dean… Granted, Castiel is only four years older, but still. These are things he writes about, things movies are made of, but never reality.

“Cas?”

He looks up, his eyes stinging. “I sometimes feel shame at calling myself a writer, when half the time I just don’t know what to say.”

Anna’s eyes are wide as she brings him in for a hug, patting his back the same way she’d do when they were kids. “I didn’t mean anything bad by it. It was an observation. I’m glad, I really am, that you can finally be happy.”

“I am happy,” and although it isn’t a lie, he’s as far away from happy as he can be at the moment. “Honestly.”

“You look troubled,” she says before pulling away. “Penny for your thoughts? There’s bound to be more going on in that head of yours than you’re saying.”

Castiel wishes he can open up to her completely, tell her about the darkness that trails behind him and how it steals away his sleep. He wishes he can tell her about the nightmares, about the psychic reading, about the eerie stillness his house manifests just before he sinks into a watery nightmare, and how Dean unintentionally stands at the beginning of these thoughts.

Turning his gaze to the sea, Castiel wishes times were simple again. “Haven’t I always been troubled?” he says, turning back to Anna with a small smile.

•••

Dinner is as awkward as Castiel expected it to be.

Gabriel spends most of his time making inappropriate jokes that make Anna snort ungracefully, and Michael roll his eyes in annoyance. Their mother tuts at them but smiles, and their father just looks at them through his glass of wine.

The food is cooked to perfection, and they all are kind enough to comment on it. The turkey is roasted to a golden-brown, the mashed potatoes taste buttery-smooth, the gravy is just this side of tangy, and the homemade bread (that was actually purchased last minute by Dean) is fluffier than Castiel hoped for. Even the apricot sauce, which Mother Novak looked so scandalized over is greeted with praise. Castiel makes a mental note to pass those compliments on to Dean.

Pumpkin pie is served, and Gabriel takes charge of devouring any leftover sweets.

Thankfully enough, no one asks Castiel much of anything. He knows Thanksgiving dinner is more of a social call than an actual family gathering, an excuse to take a look at his pricey new estate. Most of the conversation is between Michael and Father Novak, where they discuss business and other nonsense Castiel couldn’t care less about. On the other end of the table, their mother, Anna, and Gabriel discuss Anna’s potential suitors and weddings. Blissfully, no one mentions Castiel.

They later move back into the living room, leaving Castiel to clean up the mess left behind.

“Little bro,” Gabriel says, making himself useful and helping with the dishes. “How’s your story coming along?”

“Stilted, but at least I’m getting somewhere.” Castiel moves over, allowing Gabriel some space at the sink. “Zachariah keeps yelling at me on a weekly basis because I still don’t have a fully drafted plot.”

“Easy; should have made it about me.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “Yes, that would definitely be a best seller.”

“Why, is that _sarcasm_ I hear? Oh my, did that Dean fellow teach you that?”

“Perhaps.”

There’s a brief moment of silence before, “Is that the only thing he’s taught you?”

Castiel thinks about it, wonders if there’s anything he can use against Gabriel that Dean has taught him. “Well, he did teach me how to shove my foot up someone’s ass.”

Gabriel doesn’t chortle; that’s not the exact word one would use to describe his laugh. It’s more the sound of a goat trying to guffaw, loudly. “You have got to be shitting me. It’s like you’re a brand new man!”

“Would you lower your voice?”

“What else did he teach you to shove up asses?” This earns him a slap across the face with a soaked washcloth. “Geez, sorry if I hit a soft spot,” and another wet smack.

The tips of Castiel’s ears burn hot. “That’s none of your business.”

Gabriel bumps the side of his hip against Castiel’s, making him stumble. “So, what. Dude waves his magic stick and suddenly you’re into dicks?”

“Jesus, Gabriel, could we not speak of this right now?” If Castiel could shove his head in the ground, he would do so without a second thought.

“Cool it, man. No one can hear us with Michael talking high and mighty about his seventeen girlfriends and potential wife.”

“Still, I’m not fond of discussing my personal life.”

Gabriel frowns, throwing a soggy piece of bread on Castiel’s side of the sink. “I’m your big brother, I’m supposed to embarrass you. It’s in the Book of Big Brothers. Chapter three, page sixty nine.”

When Castiel doesn’t humor him with an answer, Gabriel sighs and gathers his more serious composure. 

“Look, Cas, I just want you to know that I fully respect your choices. I’m cool with you being with whomever you want, that’s not my problem, as long as they treat you right. You’ve been through the grinder, and you don’t deserve bullshit from anybody.” Taking the last of the plates, Gabriel dries it with his own shirt. “I guess what I’m saying is, if anyone gives you shit—the neighbor, the cat, Dean… you let me know. I got a few favors the mafia owes me. They’ll never find the body.”

Castiel deadpans. “You don’t know anyone in the mafia.”

“Don’t cheapen the moment.”

Exhaling a laugh, Castiel rolls his eyes. “All right, you win. But just this time.”

“Nah, brah, I win them all. No but really, does he have any sisters?”

“He has a brother.”

“And this interests me… why?”

Before Castiel can answer, Anna walks in, looking agitated and wrenching the refrigerator door open with enough force to rattle the plate rack above it. Castiel winces when he hears the bottles inside the refrigerator clink and fall over. “What’s wrong?”

“Michael is wrong, that’s what. Him and his stupid, bigoted, arrogant, ugly face,” she nearly shouts, slamming the door shut and huffing right back into the living room.

Silence erupts into a chorus of yelling and endless expletives that has Castiel blinking, dumbfounded, at the pillow that flies across the archway between the kitchen and living room. He can hear Anna ranting, and Michael’s deep barks of words he can’t exactly make out. 

Moments later, he sees their parents bluster out of the house. His mother is the only one who stops to give both boys a kiss on the cheek before being dragged out the door by a stormy looking Mister Novak.

Michael stalks out just seconds after, and Anna stands in the dining room, looking torn about where to go.

Castiel digs his finger into the corner of his eyes and sighs. “The bathroom is upstairs,” he says, casting her a gentle smile. “I have a guest room, in case you want to stay the night.”

Without much prompting, she stomps up the stairs.

Castiel, very much used to the chaos, pulls out two bottles of beer that are thankfully not broken, and throws one to Gabriel, who now sits on the counter, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” Castiel says, opting to lean against the fridge, unopened bottle in hand.

Gabriel snorts, and taps their drinks together. “Just another round for the Novak family.”

Amused, Castiel tips his head in agreement.


	6. The Lie

_One, two, three, four...—_

_Fire, water, blood, and seashells._

_Standing on a foreign shoreline, Castiel’s bare feet sink into the loose sand, its grains still hot after a long, scorchingly sunny day. The sense of pain is vague, his attention elsewhere as he stares on, enraptured by the pink, white, and brown seashells that form a trail beneath his feet; a trail he collects as he follows._

_The pieces are tiny and broken, pretty against the paleness of his moonlit skin, a shocking yet beautiful contrast to the crimson that bubbles from his fingertips. He’s holding on too tight, tight enough to break skin, but they’re so fragile—how could they harm him? He’ll collect them. Castiel will store them away in a jar and place it by his bedside._

_But the seashells aren’t seashells at all. They glisten the harder he looks at them, running a thumb over the small mound on his palm, and the blood flows freely. Castiel holds onto pieces of glass that mercilessly bite into his skin, but they’re still beautiful, and he still wants to collect them. How can something so fragile harm him?_

_“Why are you bleeding, honey?” Emily asks him, her voice as soft as a breeze, as she caresses the curls of dark hair behind his ear._

_Her hands are at his elbows, tender and loving; her chin resting on his shoulder._

_“I was fixing your coat,” Castiel hears himself say, and he nods his head. “I kept pricking my fingers with the needle.”_

_The smell of fire and smoke fills his lungs._

_Water laps at his toes, cool and refreshing._

_“Come away from the water, Castiel. You’ll catch a cold,” Emily whispers, her hand carding through his hair._

_Easing out of her grip, Castiel walks away, turns to the quietly rolling waves that call out to him with a story he’s yet to hear. Ferocious but sleeping—a storm that promises to bless the dry earth with torrential rain._

_“Castiel.”_

_Waves make him sway the deeper he goes. Salt water makes his pinpricked skin sting when it reaches his hands. Behind him, the fire roars, yells out his name with outrage and disbelief. There’s anger in its snap and crackle, betrayal in its all-consuming wrath._

_“Cas,” and it’s Dean’s voice that murmurs it, when arms like iron wrap around Castiel’s waist. “I got you.”_

_In the distance, on the shore, Castiel hears his name in a burning bellow._

_He dives in._

_The underwater world is unmoving, the canvas of bruised blue and purple eternal, the sandy floor placid and untouched by any living thing._

_Castiel is suspended in a timeless and depthless void where no light can reach, but where darkness is absent._

_Dean holds him still; doesn’t allow him to sink deeper into the nothingness of the sea. His hands move, precise and unyielding as he sheds away the billowing clothing on Castiel’s body, strips him bare for the water to touch._

_Castiel gasps, bubbles coming from his mouth when Dean’s hands caress him, filling him with pleasure despite the grip now closing around the column of his neck. He can’t breathe, he can’t move, but Castiel can feel every single shift, can drink in every single drowned word Dean whispers into his ear._

_Water gives way to bed sheets, a soft bed and belts around his wrists._

_Castiel writhes. Mouth, hands and teeth biting and claiming and scratching in a mixture of sensation and feeling. He whimpers, whines, begs for more as Dean moves above him like watery smoke, like a dream born out of desperation._

_Dean’s eyes swirl into unknowable colors; his face contorts into something beautiful yet frightening, but his touch is tender and sweet, and Castiel is starved for it._

_“Please,” Castiel begs, tugging against his holds as his back comes off the bed. “Please.”_

_“Open the door, Cas. Go along and open the door.”_

•••

Castiel wakes up with his heart beating a rapid tattoo against his ribs.

The early-morning sun filters through the curtains of his bedroom, throwing his room into varying shades of gray. The added stillness of early morning holds his surroundings still in a state of somberness, and Castiel has to move his fingers and toes to make sure he’s really awake, instead of being immersed in another hyper-realistic dream.

He tries not to linger on the thought of Emily, seeing her face outside of a photograph for the very first time in so long. Never has he dreamed of her before, and he vaguely entertains the thought that his subconscious may be trying to guilt-trip him for accepting Dean as a constant in this new life Castiel has chosen.

Taking a deep breath through his nose, he holds it until the count of five, and slowly exhales through his mouth. After several months of not needing to practice those meditation lessons, he’s back to square one.

“What am I going to do with you?” Castiel murmurs, spread out over his bed, blankly staring at the ceiling.

The walls Castiel has worked so hard on building up have been penetrated so easily. No cracks, no holes—Dean just walked through them like an incorporeal being. Like a ghost.

Castiel presses a hand to his face and groans. He doesn’t know what to do or what to think. He doesn’t know what his dreams mean, outside the fact that they feel so earth-shakingly real.

Castiel doesn’t know what to make of the fact that Dean being something other than human rings so clear and true to him, that he’s almost certain Dean isn’t. There’s a conviction to that thought that scares him half to death, because what does that say about Castiel’s mental state? That’s he’s insane, that’s what. That he’s lost it, and that he’s trying to find an excuse to bury the fact that what has happened over the course of these last few months is nothing more than human attraction at work.

There’s nothing supernatural about it. This is a story about how two lost individuals found each other, toyed with each other, lusted for each other, and eventually fell in love.

The only problem lies in Castiel believing that.

•••

“Happy Black Friday,” Anna says with a hint of sarcasm, flipping pancakes into a platter along with bacon and strawberries.

Castiel is bemused, having forgotten that his sister spent the night. He feels guilty for not even acknowledging her after everyone had left. “Good morning, Anna. How was your night?” Giving her a kiss on the cheek, he moves to pour them both some coffee.

“Same as every night, only with a dash of annoying noise included.”

“Noise?”

“The waves. How can you sleep with them constantly crashing and the house groaning? I spent six months at a beach house in Brazil, and it was way quieter than this place. It’s like it’s needy for attention.”

Castiel gives a full body shrug, bringing their mugs to the table. “I guess I’m used to them already. I rarely notice it.”

Anna has always been the best cook in the Novak family, immediately after Castiel that is, and her pancakes don’t disappoint. They’re a little too fluffy, but just the right amount of buttery. He doesn’t bother ruining them with syrup, and just adds a spoonful of butter on top.

“All dressed up so early in the morning. Meeting?” Anna says.

He’s only wearing last night’s suit, sans the tie.

“Somewhat. I was planning on driving around the island, see if there’s anything I can draw inspiration from. I’ve been stumped for a while, and everything that comes out of my fingers is clipped and… jumbled.” 

“Mind if I come along, or would I be blocking your creative genius?” 

Castiel moves a strawberry around his plate, searching for a proper answer. 

“I guess that’s ‘Cas’ for _I’d rather you don’t._ ”

“It’s not that. It’s…” Castiel lets the sentence drop, staring down at his unfinished stack of pancakes and sighing. “I’ll tell you what. Sunday morning, I’ll take you to all the places I plan on visiting today. Just you and I.”

Castiel doesn’t mind Anna’s company, but although inspiration isn’t exactly a lie, it’s not the whole truth either. It wouldn’t do to have her think he’s gone off the rails yet again, not when they tried spending an entire evening pretending he was back to being a normal, productive human being.

Waving her fork, Anna nods her head. “But won’t you be busy on Sunday?”

“No, not that I’m aware.”

“I thought the entire island banded together to work on last minute prep for the festival?”

Taking a long sip from his coffee, he knits his eyebrows. “What festival?”

Anna steals a strip of bacon off Castiel’s plate. “The Autumn Festival? Last day of November? Cas, it’s all over the news. Tourist trap, really, but all the locals get together the Sunday prior to the event to lend a hand.”

“How do you even know that?”

“I did my research. Balthazar will most likely be there, and I’m pretty sure he won’t run over to the place without dragging you along.”

She’s right, and Castiel groans at the idea. “The last day of November is next Thursday. Why make us do it this coming Sunday?”

“Heck if I know. Take it up with the mayor.”

Rubbing his eyes, Castiel sits back. “Monday. I’ll take you out on Monday.”

“Monday’s a holiday.”

“Fine! Tuesday, then.”

Anna giggles in her seat, finishing up a piece of toast he didn’t see her take. “Tuesday would be fine, little brother.”

•••

Castiel drops Anna off at the only hotel Nires Island owns, before driving to the rendezvous point.

After the commotion last night, Castiel called Dean to fill him in, and then sent Balthazar a message to meet him at the Roadhouse at ten in the morning. Some grumbling on Balthazar’s part later, he agreed to it.

The conversation between Castiel and Anna by the shoreline is still fresh in Castiel’s mind, and although he still cannot put two and two together, he knows these are pieces of a bigger puzzle, and that he’s just about to form the full picture. Maybe he has gone off the deep end, but he’s one-hundred-percent certain that he and Dean have a connection that transcends the natural order.

His fear lies within the connection not being accidental at all.

Despite it being early, The Roadhouse is rowdy. Castiel waves at Ellen and Jo, and they smile in return as Castiel makes a beeline for Balthazar.

“Took you long enough.”

“I was dropping Anna off at the hotel,” Castiel mutters.

“I figure last night went well.”

Taking a seat on the vinyl booth, Castiel pulls a face that is the equivalent to an eye roll. “I lost two picture frames and a glass owl.”

Balthazar snorts. “All right, are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

While taking measured breaths, promising to control his simmering hysteria, Castiel consciously taps his fingers against the formica table top to the beat of the cowboy song that bleeds through the speakers. 

“This isn’t normal, not for me,” he begins, fingers drumming faster and losing the small semblance of a beat they had. “Anna is right, I never would have willingly gotten myself into this situation or anything remotely similar. Six years are being put on the line—”

“Cas.”

Pulling back at Balthazar’s sternness, he blinks. “What?”

“You’re rambling. From the beginning. I have no bloody idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, right. Yes, of course.”

Taking another deep breath, Castiel recounts to Balthazar the conversation he and Anna shared. Balthazar sits in silence, taking it all in.

With a sigh, Castiel finishes, “God knows she’s right. You know she’s right, you’ve said so yourself countless times.”

Taking a swig of his coffee, Balthazar leans back and crosses his legs beneath the table, accidentally kicking Castiel in the process. He doesn’t apologize. “Let me get this straight. You get the hots for someone after six years of not getting the hots for someone… and now you think that there’s something…” He takes a moment to bite his bottom lip and not laugh. “You think there’s something supernatural behind that?”

“This isn’t funny.”

“I’m not laughing,” Balthazar says, but the not-laughing is a battle he’s quickly losing. “Castiel, you are obsessed with creepy-crawlies. Every little thing that happens doesn’t happen because something is pulling the strings. When will you accept that?”

“I’m not crazy.”

Balthazar straightens up, stares Castiel dead in the eye. “I know you’re not. You’ve been through hell and back, Cas. You were healed—”

“ _Were?_ ” Castiel snaps, straightening up and narrowing his eyes. “You think I relapsed?”

“You’re telling me that you developing feelings you do not want is the fault of some… some… _magic_ or whatever. Stop hiding inside your fantasy world, Cas, it’s not real. None of it is real.” His tone is cool and calm, but the undercurrent bristles with a charged energy that dares Castiel to argue.

“It’s not—” Realizing that he’s causing a scene, Castiel lowers his voice. “It’s not fantasy, or my imagination, or whatever you think it is. The moment I set foot on this island, the nightmares started. If you tell me those aren’t connected—”

“You’ve been having nightmares for years!”

“Not like this! Balthazar, I nearly drowned in my bathtub. I can feel the sand on my feet, smell the smoke.”

“Hyper-realistic dreaming isn’t a rare occurrence.”

“ _I’m not crazy!_ ” 

Half the diner looks towards the table now, and Castiel can’t take it. He can’t take more of the same judgement, the same distressed stares and the same brushing off he’s received since he was a child. This isn’t madness—this is the crippling truth no one is willing to believe.

Blinding anger sears through him, and he slams his palm against the table before getting up and storming out the door, leaving a cloud of murmurs in his wake. 

The sun’s glare blinds him momentarily.

He’ll find the answers himself.

“Castiel, wait a damn minute,” Balthazar urges, a few steps behind as he jogs to catch up. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“I’m going to see Missouri.”

“Of course you are. Your car is over there.”

“I’m walking.”

Balthazar slows down when he finally catches up, body half turned towards the sidewalk Castiel’s car is parked parallel to. “Yes, walking. It’s a beautiful day to do so.”

“I don’t appreciate your humor.”

“Of course you don’t. Look, Cassie—”

“I don’t want to hear it. Either you’re with me on this, or you’re not. If all you’re going to do is hover over my shoulder and remind me that I’m insane, then don’t.”

They walk hurriedly, in silence, for what seems like hours.

•••

Balthazar collapses when they reach the steps of Missouri’s home, dramatically heaving for air as he sits on the ledge of the porch, hands massaging the sides of his feet through his shoes. They’ve walked for forty five minutes, and he already looks like he’s about to die.

Castiel huffs an anxious breath and climbs up the short set of steps, footfalls sounding heavy and hollow over the worn woodwork. The door opens before he can knock, Missouri grabbing him by the wrist and wrenching him inside before Balthazar can even budge, locking him out in cold.

Castiel splutters when he’s splashed with some kind of flowery-scented water, and nearly trips on the rustic-looking rug when he’s dragged down the hall and into a tiny room Missouri locks behind her. 

While the house smells of incense and freshly baked goods, this room smells old and dusty, much like an attic that has long been in disuse.

It’s dark, the only light source coming from a small bowl at the middle of the round table.

“What’s going on?”

“You are in a lot of trouble,” she says hurriedly, sounding too concerned for comfort. He hears the clattering of metals and something being sprayed, and with that, the scent of roses and raspberries suddenly enters his awareness. “I know what you’ve come here for, but I’m afraid I cannot help you in the way you seek.”

“Is this about Dean?” The question is out before he can stop himself, but Missouri would have picked up on it, regardless if he’d asked it or not.

“Dean?”

He stands corrected.

“Um, yes. I thought that, maybe, he was connected to all this.” The lights flicker on, and Castiel winces at their harsh glare.

Castiel looks around, shocked, and wary of the things he sees. When someone says ‘palm reader’, this isn’t exactly what he expects.

Wooden bookcases line all of the walls of the tiny room, all kinds of paraphernalia making the place feel cramped. From vinyl records to what looks like a hornless goat skull. One of the bookcases is divided into segments, like makeshift shadow boxes, and all of the cubicles that are not covered by a thick and grubby black velvet are empty.

“What is this place?”

“This is where I keep my _real_ magic. Scares off the more casual customers, but I’m going to need some heavy duty things for you.”

Missouri pulls out a jar of something from behind one of the covered cubicles, and sets it on the table. “Sit down, we need to talk, and not about this Dean fellow.” She holds up a finger to stop his oncoming protest. “One thing at a time, sugar. Your thoughts are all jumbled.”

Jumbled is an understatement, Castiel thinks bitterly, drumming his fingers against the side of his thigh. He figures he ought to refrain from jumping down people’s throats when they are completely oblivious to his thoughts. In the case of Missouri, it’s something completely different given that she can literally sift through his head. Different doesn’t mean easier however, especially with the constant turmoil of half-formed ideas and repressed nightmares that comprise more than half of Castiel’s mind.

The blackness. What Missouri wants to talk about is the black plume that haunts Castiel day to day. Not his emotionally stunted escapades with a man who may not be a man at all.

“Dean, then,” Missouri says, placing a wrinkled finger to her chin. “All right, I’ll humor you. Come and tell me about him.”

At that mention of Dean’s name, Castiel feels an itch, and he hopes it isn’t a reaction to what was splashed on him.

Nodding, he takes a seat, his back stiff.

“We’ve been…” he stops, licks his lips and struggles for a way to say it. “He and I, we…”

“Out with it, boy. Nothing I haven’t heard before.”

“We’ve been seeing each other and our relationship is somewhat sexual, I only just made the connection that these things started happening in earnest just after I met him,” he says in a rush, the air being dragged out of him as he blushes under her gaze.

Missouri’s eyes widen a fraction of an inch, and is quiet for a short while. “What’d you say his last name was?”

“I didn’t.” At the glowering look she gives him, Castiel clears his throat. “Dean Winchester.”

Castiel is startled when she shoots out of her chair, grumbling to herself and pulling more jars out of the crowded shelves. One of the jars is filled with translucent orange-colored water.

“I don’t know whether to shout for joy or weep for your soul,” Missouri says. “Now don’t go freaking out just yet, honey. All I have are muddled theories and nothing to validate them. Most of them don’t even make the slightest bit of sense.”

The itch intensifies all over his body, Castiel furiously scratches at it over the fabric of his suit. Arms, neck, legs. “Wait, you think he’s involved in this?”

“Don’t you?”

“I’m not… really sure about anything, right now.”

“No, I don’t think he’s involved,” she clears up, pulling out a velvet sack from inside a blue jar. She spills its contents, a dozen sea shells, onto the table. “To be honest, I was thinking about something else entirely. And here I was, thinking I was on a roll until you show up at my door and throw another ingredient into the pot. You’ve only known that boy for how long, now?”

“Personally, about a month and a half.”

Missouri retakes her seat and hums. “But this thing, this entity, it’s been plaguing you long before you came here. If memory serves me right, I’ve known Dean for the better part of twenty years, haven’t seen him in ten. A walking mystery, that one.”

Castiel’s eyes widen at the revelation, and he has to ask, “Why?” It’s hard to believe, considering that they both live on such a small island.

“I can smell the ocean on you,” she says instead, big eyes narrowing curiously. “Sharp and salty, like somebody gone and put it on your skin.”

“So says the person who splashed aromatic water on my face,” Castiel quips under his breath, looking away, unnerved by her penetrating eyes.

The itch is unbearable, and with a single uncalled thought, it zeros in on his left shin. Castiel doesn’t bother hiding his discomfort anymore, but he doesn’t complain as he turns to stare at Missouri questioningly. “What is this?”

“You said you were intimate with him?”

The burst of heat makes Castiel recoil, the embarrassment of the connection between what Missouri is insinuating and the itch on his leg finally making sense. He tries to dampen that night’s memories, of Dean’s semen trickling down his shin, but judging by the hand clasped against Missouri’s mouth, she already knows.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean… That wasn’t…”

Clearing her throat, she waves him off. “I’ve listened in on worse, don’t you worry about that.”

He braves a look at her, attempting to trample and bury the tremendous humiliation currently eating away at him. “Okay—Okay, so…it’s not that I think that Dean and the entity—” He stops to think for a moment, “and the house are connected, but…”

“But that’s exactly what you’re thinking,” Missouri says tentatively, but she straightens up with a hand pressed to her temple. “Lordy, I can’t even begin to string together the things going on in that head of yours.”

“Final verdict?” Castiel deflects, desperate to get to the bottom of things.

“I’m far from it, I’m afraid. I know enough about Dean to tell you that the man is tied to the sea, probably due to a traumatic experience in his youth. Certain feelings and emotions tie into your soul, turning you into a living, breathing element. Maybe, a child could lose their mother in a fire—”

“And they’ll turn into a pyromaniac,” Castiel finishes, catching her drift.

“Worst case scenario, yes. But they can also tame it, make that element their own. Human, but so very special.”

If Dean truly is human... “Then Dean… _isn’t_ behind this.”

“That’s not what I said.”

Castiel groans in exasperation, ready to rip the itching skin of his leg. “Then what?!”

“Watch your tone with me, young man. I’m just as troubled as you are, but you don’t hear me taking it out on you.” Missouri moves the shells around, looking at them intently. “Certain people, _Dean_ —if we’re reading well enough between the lines, are open to a psychic connection. It’s easier to bond with someone who shares a similar past.”

“There’s nothing psychic about that,” Castiel says, rubbing his shin against the wooden table leg. “Basic human psychology.”

Missouri nods. “Men of broader intellect know that there is no sharp distinction betwixt the real and the unreal.”

Castiel can’t help but smile at that. “Lovecraft.”

“That phrase holds far more meaning than you think possible, Castiel.”

“And the dreams? Do those mean anything?”

At the curious look in her dark eyes, Castiel reluctantly plays them out in his head for Missouri to see, and makes sure to leave out no detail.

“Oh,” Missouri mumbles, looking down at her shells again. “Is that woman your late wife?”

Wringing his hands, sweat now beading on his temples, Castiel nods his head once. “I saw Emily last night, in the dream. It’s the first time I’ve seen her since she passed.”

The silence suffocates. Missouri looks deep in thought, hands clasped together as she looks at the maps pinned to her walls.

“The dead do not talk, Castiel.”

“Excuse me?”

“She came to you, on your shore, and spoke to you. The dead do not do that.”

He’s heard the expression before, but the way Missouri says it makes his blood run cold. He waits for her to continue.

“When the life cycle ends, it ends. The body is returned to the ground, the spirit and soul move on to their resting place. Emily Rose died on that dreaded day. That entity you continue to see can mean one of two things.”

“She’s not at peace,” Castiel murmurs, looking down at his hands.

He’s unsure whether or not his dreams truly mean anything regarding the physical world, despite Missouri’s certainty. Dreams are portraits of his psyche, maybe; a defense mechanism to keep him from doing something stupid. But Missouri isn’t the only one who feels certain that the dreams mean more than that, regardless of how much Castiel wants to deny it—of how much he wants to bury it all and never acknowledge it again.

If Emily has a voice after death, if his dreams do have some sort of semblance of reality, then what of Dean’s role?

“Or, it wasn’t her at all. Something is trying to get to you, Castiel, and they have failed. If this _thing_ has sunk low enough to bring back the dead, then I fear what else it will do.”

Overwhelmed, Castiel hides his face in his hands, shoulders trembling.

“It’s okay to be afraid.”

There’s a long and heavy silence, and if he sniffs, she doesn’t point it out. Missouri occupies herself with pulling out old pages and worn books, probably allowing him a moment to collect himself.

 _It’s okay to be afraid_. Living in fear is no life at all. Constant paranoia, the horror of thinking that whatever is behind this malignant force has lifted his dead wife from rest… This isn’t living. Not to Castiel. His mind is nothing but a constant cycle of _Dean, monster, house_ that has no real beginning and no foreseeable end.

“Do you think the house has anything to do with it?” Castiel finally asks, sitting back and noticing that the itch is gone. “Dean mentioned it was haunted. Perhaps it’s just me but sometimes it feels heavy. There’s really no way to explain it—nothing to explain really. It’s just something that _is_.”

“The old Robinson place, yes? I’ve heard the stories, but there’s nothing particularly shady about it. The house is old, one of the first built when settlers first inhabited the island. Walls and mortar collect memories and experiences; it’s normal for a house so old to feel heavy, but it doesn’t necessarily mean a haunting. More like an echo.” Missouri puts a gentle hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “The energy in there could be exposing you to different frequencies, making you and Dean more open towards each other.”

Castiel sighs, thinking that that could explain a lot.

Adamant that something has been influencing his acceptance of his feelings towards Dean, an old house that amplifies a psychic connection isn’t what Castiel has been expecting.

Something far darker still pulls his strings, lingering in the corner of his eye. This he already knew, but after last night’s dream, he feels a cold, hard desperation settling in his bones. There’s something more in the house, and he knows it.

“One last thing,” Missouri says. “Did you smudge the place? Salt the entrances?” At Castiel’s nod, she pushes on. “Has Dean been able to cross those lines?”

Confused by the question, he thinks back to the night where he almost got himself run over. “He helped me set them. Why?”

“Then Dean doesn’t wish to cause you harm, so that’s something in his favor.”

“But he’s still not clean,” he says tentatively, nothing above a whisper.

“Not entirely. Not until I can pinpoint what is up with that boy, if anything. But you shouldn’t let your guard down, not until I know for certain what is going on in this whirlwind of a world of yours,” she says, tone authoritative but gentle.

“I understand.”

“Now,” Missouri says, rubbing her hands together while looking down at the mess of shells and jars spread over her table. “I believe it’s time to call it a day. I may need to… snatch a little peek on the other side.”

Unwilling to ask what she’s talking about, Castiel gets up to leave. Missouri shows him out. “Remember to check those lines every day, you hear? Better safe than sorry.”

By the front door, Castiel writes his number on a piece of paper. “If you come across anything, anything at all, please let me know. And thank you.”

Missouri’s smile is sad as she pats his cheek. “Anytime, honey. And I see you got yourself a pretty hefty protection charm.” She adjusts the bronze amulet Dean had given him. “Very powerful, so you better keep that on you at all times.”

“Dean gave it to me,” he says wistfully, feeling jaded.

Missouri hums a thoughtful note before saying, “Don’t let this eat you up. Remember what I told you, about letting that heart of yours tick again. Innocent until proven guilty and all that.”

Castiel doesn’t say anything about it, just nods his head and walks outside.

Maybe she’s right. Maybe Castiel does have a dozen or so loose bolts in his head. There’s nothing concrete to tell him that Dean is behind much of anything; nothing more than a few nightmares and insomniac thoughts, well-fuelled paranoia and the severe fear of human emotions.

“You know, not that it’s any of my business,” she speaks up again, making him turn around briefly. “But isn’t he a tad bit too old for you?”

Castiel makes a face at her, and shuffles his feet. “I’m sorry?”

“That Dean fella. It’s been a while but, I reckon those years have caught up to him. Then again, some people age like fine wine. Like myself, for instance.” Missouri laughs at her own words, but waves him off.

“I… don’t follow.”

“How old are you, hon?” She makes the question sound like he’s the dullest crayon in the box.

“Thirty four.”

“That makes you at least ten years younger, am I right?”

Castiel takes an involuntary step back, bumping into a fuming Balthazar.

“Are we done here?” Balthazar asks, cheeks red and hands freezing where they grip Castiel’s wrist to tug him away.

Missouri is still looking at Castiel, her face passive, but says nothing on the matter. 

“H—Have a nice day, Miss Moseley,” Castiel gasps out, keeping in mind to be polite despite the earth-shattering revelation.

•••

“We don’t have a library,” Balthazar barks, hands deep in his pockets and shoulders hunched in anger. “It’s called the fucking internet.”

“Then where are the island’s historical records kept?” Castiel trudges along next to him, feeling empty and zoned out, not doing much thinking as he blindly follows his friend along the empty road.

“How the hell should I know?”

The towering pines are quiet and unmoving, their density blocking a deeper view into the forest. The way they loom in Castiel's eyeline makes him amble towards the center of the desolate road. In the distance, he can see the only tall mountain Nires Island has, the afternoon sun illuminating it in hues of gold and brown. Just another thing to add to the endless list of peculiarities.

"And why the hell should you care about historical records, anyway?"

“I want to know more about the house.”

“Christ in Heaven, what did that woman tell you now?” Castiel doesn’t answer. “Right, you’re still pissed at me for calling you crazy, I get it. You know what? I don’t fucking give a damn anymore. If you want to dive into a pool of lava, be my guest.”

Frowning at Balthazar’s exploitation of the word ‘fucking’, Castiel scoffs. “Of course, what else is new?”

The fist that connects with Castiel’s jaw is so fast, it takes him a moment to register that he was hit in the first place. Castiel stumbles, hand flying to his jaw, feeling his face pound and throb and run cold. Balthazar shoves him, hard, into one of the pine trees that line the road.

“Don’t you dare,” he hisses. “Don’t you dare suggest that I’ve never tried to help you when throughout all of our friendship it’s been all I’ve ever done! Dammit, Castiel. I want to believe you, I want to help you, but what you’re saying sounds insane. Dean isn’t some old hag bewitching you for whatever reasons you think he is. There is nothing out to get you. The supernatural doesn’t exist. Your wife and kid were killed by some sicko with a mask, not some being who had nothing better to do!”

Castiel shoves Balthazar back, snarling with a violence that has the man backpedaling. “You weren’t there,” Castiel grits out, and he can feel his chest constricting at the words. “You never saw it. You don’t feel it. If all you’re going to do is stand around and distort what I say, making me sound like a mental case, then go away. I have enough stuff to worry about.”

“God knows what you’d do if I left.”

“What? What would I do, Balthazar?” Castiel challenges, shoving the man as he pushes himself away from the tree. “Swallow a bullet? I didn’t do it then, why would I do it now?” Castiel extends his arms to his side, as if showing Balthazar the depth and level of darkness that whips and sparks in the air around him. “Oh. This is about the drugs, isn’t it? That’s all this is about. One little bump on the road and I’ll become a useless junkie yet again.”

“Cas—”

“I haven’t taken a pill since I met Dean. I don’t have to. He doesn’t think I’m crazy.” Cool, calm and collected. “Not a single syringe has broken my skin even when this all feels like it’s coming right back down on me.” He taps his arms to emphasize his point, and if it weren’t for the tight-sleeved jacket, Castiel would have rolled them up to show his fading track marks. “I’m not crazy!”

Oh but he is, Castiel knows he is. At this point, there’s nothing else left but to accept the burdensome reality of it. Yelling into both neighboring forests, walking smack in the middle of an empty road with his arms waving around like a madman. At that very moment, he feels like he could be the poster boy for mental instability.

Throat hoarse and voice cracking, he says, “Dean means the world to me. I don’t know why, Balthazar. But he does. God, he does.”

But of course he knows why. Dean is safety. Dean is compassion, and acceptance. And Castiel is in love, even through the haze of doubt and insecurity that manifests inside his mind. 

He’s ashamed by the burning behind his eyes, his own hands gripping his hair as he walks away to catch his breath, before turning back to Balthazar in a flurry of jerky movements. “I’m scared. I’m scared that this _thing_ is going to take him away from me.” A dry sob rips itself out of his chest, but he doesn’t let the tears fall. “What will I do if I lose him, too?”

Torn between two very real fears. 

Castiel stiffens, then sags, when Balthazar pulls him in for a short hug. Castiel doesn’t raise his arms to return it, just stands there, bristling with ire and fatigue.

Balthazar’s hands rub soothing circles along his back. 

“I know a retired high school teacher who lives about a half-hour drive away,” he says, finally loosening his hold around Castiel’s shoulders. “He taught history, has a bit of an occult fetish thing. People just call him the town drunk, but if anyone could help you… I think he can.”

Castiel takes another steadying breath and runs a hand across his face. His eyes still sting as he presses his fingers against their corners and his head hurts, but he feels slightly better after letting it all out. The heaviness is still in his heart and mind, but he can breathe through the smog-filled haze. 

“I don’t ask for much,” Castiel explains, turning and continuing the long trek back to town. “I don’t want any of it to be real, hell, maybe it isn’t and it _is_ just me. But all I ask for is peace of mind.”

“Then work with me, Cas. We’ll meet halfway if we have to, but don’t leave me standing here feeling like the bad cop.”

•••

It’s noon by the time they reach the Roadhouse’s sidewalk, Balthazar complaining that his feet feel like they’ve been run over by an eighteen-wheeler. Castiel's own feet feel much the same.

Balthazar treats them to lunch: penne alfredo, garlic bread, and the biggest jugs of soda they have, for the sake of cooling off.

“Everything all right here, boys? Y’all left in quite a hurry earlier,” Ellen says, jotting down their order.

“Yes, it was just a small misunderstanding,” Castiel politely explains, playing with a napkin so as to not face Ellen’s intense glaring. “It’s been resolved.”

“Better have been. If not, I’ll be forced to open a can of whoop-ass, and neither of you is going to like it.” She smiles despite that, patting Castiel on the shoulder.

“Ellen, do you happen to have Singer’s phone number, by any chance?” Balthazar is quick to ask before she leaves, charming smile, though ineffective to her, set in place.

“Bobby?” She gives him a steady look, one that borders on suspicious. “I’ll get Jo to bring it to you with your lunch.”

“Thank you,” Castiel says, smiling up at her. He turns to Balthazar when she’s way out of hearing range. “What do you plan on telling him?”

“Me? Old fool hates me enough. You’re the one that’s going to butter him up and get him to spill, if he knows anything.” He dismissively waves his hand at Castiel’s confused look. “Long story. Anyways, I advise against mentioning anything spooky. Or else he’ll think you’re only pulling his leg.”

Castiel makes note of that. “What kind of history did he teach?”

“Don’t know and I honestly don’t care, but it’s worth asking him a few questions. Also, you might want to take him a bottle of hard liquor. As a peace offering.”

Several minutes pass before Jo makes her way to the table, two steaming pastas, two extra-large cups of soda, and two slices of apple pie all balanced perfectly on her arms. “Here you go, guys.” Setting them down, she pulls a piece of paper out of her apron. “Mom said you asked for this.”

“Much appreciated, sweetheart,” Balthazar says, taking the slip and handing it over to Castiel. “Is dessert on the house?”

Jo laughs, loud and bright as she walks back to the kitchen. “In your dreams, old man.”

Castiel taps the number into his phone as Balthazar unwraps his utensils and digs in. The phone rings an indeterminable amount of times before Castiel hangs up and tries again. This time, the phone stops ringing and he hears distant, garbled talking in the background, before they hang up.

“What is it?”

“Sounds like someone isn’t taking phone calls at this moment,” Castiel says, putting down the phone and directing his attention to his pasta.

It’s amazing how, no matter what he eats, everything tastes homey and delicious. From clam chowder, to pasta, to burgers and the pie; Castiel can’t choose what he likes best. The chicken in the pasta breaks at the slightest nudge, the pasta itself is cooked to perfection and the sauce is just this side of thick. Either that or he’s really hungry.

Balthazar chuckles when Castiel’s phone vibrates. He swallows without chewing his food all the way, and winces when he feels the too-large piece of chicken sinking its way down his gullet. 

Picking up the call, Castiel answers with a choked, “Hello.”

_“You hear me nice and clear because I’m not gonna say this twice. You got to one o’clock to get here, and up to two to shag-ass right where you came from, you hear? I’ll tell you what I know, but then I don’t wanna see or hear about you ever again. Are we clear on this?”_

“Inescapably,” Castiel says, back straight like a soldier taking orders from his superior.

_“Good.”_

The call ends, and it takes Castiel a moment realize it before putting down the phone. “Um, I think that was Mr. Singer.”

Balthazar motions with his fork for him to continue. “Terribly brief conversation.”

“We got forty five minutes to get… to wherever he’s meeting us.” It only just occurred to him that no location was ever mentioned.

“His place then,” Balthazar clarifies. “He never meets anyone outside his house. Old drunk is just as crazy as that broad.” Castiel makes a stony face at him, but he only shrugs it off. “That gives us thirty plus minutes if we’re going to get the whisk—Hey! Cas, what, where the hell do you think you’re going?”

But Castiel is already out the door.

•••

Bobby Singer’s home makes Castiel doubt word of him being a retired teacher.

The man lives on a farm-slash-salvage yard in the deeper parts of the forest. The house itself looks about to collapse in on itself, precariously put up on stilts, and Castiel dreads every step he takes up to the porch with Balthazar close behind.

There are rows after rows of cars, all neatly parked on the lot to the left. To the right of the house is a homegrown garage, equipped with a wooden hand-painted sign that reads _Singer Salvage_. An SUV is up on hydraulic lifts, its hood popped with a handful of tools scattered across the garage floor.

A dog looks up from where it’s chained to a scrapped pickup, whining briefly before putting its head down again.

“Are you sure this is the right place?”

Balthazar ignores him and knocks on the doorframe, getting pieces of chipped gray paint on his knuckles. When they get no answer, Balthazar knocks again. This time there’s the sound of creaking wood and the sound of someone grumbling. Through the screen door, Castiel sees him approach them.

Singer looks like the sort of man who looks older than his actual age, dressed in flannel and a faded trucker hat perched on his head. His beard is graying, but his eyes are sharp as tacks.

Castiel is certain the man will pull out a shotgun at any given second.

“You Castiel?”

The name sounds strange coming from him, gets the _tiel_ wrong, but Castiel is sure as hell not going to correct him. “Yes, sir.”

Singer jerks his head, and opening the door, gestures them to follow him inside.

“Missouri called ahead, said you were coming over to ask about the place by the lighthouse.” Castiel and Balthazar exchange looks, neither having told Missouri anything about planning a visit, much less asking about the house in particular. “What d‘ya wanna know?”

Moving into what he figures is an office, Castiel is impressed by the endless collection of books that sets his personal library to shame. Finally spotting a shotgun leaning against the weathered desk Singer sits behind, Castiel hesitantly places the bottle of Blue Ribbon whiskey on the table.

“Anything worth pointing out about the place would be helpful. I don’t know what Ms. Moseley told you, but…”

“She told me enough, kid. Have a seat, the both of you.” Singer opens a drawer and pulls out three shot glasses. “We’re gonna need it.”

The amber liquid burns Castiel’s throat, but it settles nicely in his stomach as he listens to Singer talk.

“The place was built back in the late 1700s, by a wealthy general who’d just arrived from England. Maine was still a free-for-all, the French and the English having a serious go at each other’s throats. Legend has it, when the battle reached Nires, the original owner was drowned by a local tribe.”

Balthazar scratches his nose. “Was he?”

“No one knows. Thing is, we’re too high up on the map to have had any locals; the weather’s too cold. Both sides deny ever being near him by the time of death. After that, the place went to ruins.

“Took three generations before a discharged marine purchased the piece of land. Moved in with his wife and two kids. Few years later, the house catches fire and the mother dies. Poor bastard drowns his kids and puts a bullet through his skull.”

A marine, a dead mother, and two kids.

Paranoid, neurotic, Castiel isn’t sure what to think of himself anymore, but his mind conjures up a vivid thought, like a long lost dream or a faded memory. Two boys painting a mural on what is now his study’s wall, the same two boys under the water—

The ice in Castiel's glass clinks repeatedly, but he would deny that it was due to his shaking hands. Maybe all of this does sound insane, but maybe he’s the one that’s gone insane after all. He’d be damned if anyone could blame him. “Do you happen to know the family name?”

“That’s a negative. After General Hawthorne, none of the tenants’ names were recorded until the sixties, when Robinson bought the place.”

“What happened to him?”

“Left when his wife went mad. There was a string of racial murders; the last one was his daughter. The found her body by the jetty over at Orange Grove. After that, the place was abandoned until you came along.” Singer coughs and puts down his drink.

“That’s it?”

“What else do you want, kid? Alien abductions?”

“No, I just…” Castiel trails off. Besides the uncanny resemblance to Dean’s story, nothing really strikes him as _Other_. “When you said ‘legend has it’, was there anything else people mentioned? If not the locals or any of the colonists, who drowned Hawthorne?”

“You mean like a curse or somethin’?” Singer refills his glass, frown so pronounced that Castiel wonders if it’s permanent. “There’s always talk about curses ‘round bloodied ground. Some say Hawthorne cursed God before he went under, others say witches damned the land for whatever reason witches damn things. Others say that mermaids were responsible for Hawthorne’s watery grave. There’s always gonna be mumbo-jumbo talk.”

Witches and mermaids are the least of Castiel’s problems, he thinks. Neither sound as malevolent or even _real_ enough to be behind Castiel’s otherworldly troubles. Then again, Missouri is a psychic, his nightmares try to drown him, and there’s a black smog of pure evil stalking him wherever he lays his head. 

The thin line between reality and fantasy is no more, and Castiel is willing to give anything a second thought.

“It’s almost two,” Balthazar says, touching Castiel’s knee. “We should get going.”

“Damn right, you should.” Singer scratches at his beard and gets up from his seat, shuffling his feet as he none-too-gently shows them to the door.

Placing his shot glass on the dusty desk, Castiel casts one last look over the well-worn room. Above an ancient fireplace is a diploma he can’t read due to the thick sheen of dust, and beneath it a photo of what Castiel imagines must be of Singer and his wife. They stand in front of a house, with hedges of yellow roses on either side of him.

The neglected condition of the house around him makes tells Castiel that she may be Singer’s late wife, and he can’t help but linger a moment longer, now that Balthazar has walked out of the room.

There is loneliness within those walls, and knowledge, and it hits Castiel close to home.

“You two keep out of trouble,” Singer calls out from the front door, and Castiel finally moves away, lost in somber thoughts.

“Will do, sir. Thank you for your time,” Castiel says, reaching out to shake Singer’s hand. Although surprised, he doesn’t react to the piece of paper that’s slipped into his hand. “Have a nice day.”

“I will, thanks to you. Can’t leave that bottle unattended, now.”

Balthazar starts the car as Castiel gets in.

“Are you happy now?”

“No.”

Shifting into reverse, Balthazar maneuvers the car between two scrap heaps, mindful of the mirrors.

Castiel watches the salvage yard shrink through his mirror, watches as the forest swallows it whole, and it’s when the tires make the transition from gravel to asphalt, that Balthazar sighs and smacks the steering wheel. “Okay, I’ll bite. Out with it.”

“What he said about the family. Dean’s father is an ex-marine, his mother died in a fire when he was four years old, and he has a younger brother.” Castiel turns wild eyes to Balthazar, lips pressed so tight they smart. He doesn’t want to give into these wild fantasies, but these tiny little facts blare too loudly in his head for him to ignore.

Balthazar gawks. “Castiel James Novak, you cannot possibly tell me that you honestly believe that the people in that story are _Dean_ and _his family._ Tell me you don’t think that, and if you do, I swear on my mother’s grave that I will lock you up myself.”

There’s a moment’s hesitation before Castiel says, “But you have to admit that it’s uncanny.”

“Uncanny? Maybe. Just like everyone else who’s lived there and drowned,” Balthazar says, his words plated in sarcasm. “You have to understand, Cas, all of these things have logical explanations. Autumn Hollow is seaside, people like to go for swims and, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, the currents there are severe in the best of days. People die. And Dean is _not_ a three hundred-year-old zombie.”

Leaning his head against the headrest, Castiel hums his agreement. 

He watches the trees go by as Balthazar drives, thinks about Dean with the long hair and heeled shoes stereotypical of the era. It is crazy, even for him. Maybe there were some discrepancies in Missouri’s description of Dean’s age, but that doesn’t really mean a damn thing. She probably just miscalculated his age the last time they met.

“Where to, Columbo?” Balthazar asks after a long pause.

Castiel shuts his eyes when he thinks he sees the dark creature gliding effortlessly through the trees, its mask streaked and mocking. “Home.”

•••

Checking that the salt lines are still in place goes quick and easy, leaving Castiel feeling relieved as he locks the front door and sets the alarm system. The sun has yet to set, which made looking around the outdoors easy enough, something he’d rather not take his chances with if it were night.

Back against the door, he reaches for the slip of paper Singer gave him. The handwriting is nearly unintelligible.

_Contact Benny_

_11pm at docks_

_Missouri said ‘ditch the magi’_

Castiel is convinced that Missouri has serious issues with Balthazar.

Or…

He shakes the thought out of his head. If he so much as starts thinking about Balthazar having a hand in this, he’ll never forgive himself. The possibility that this thing will try its hand at anything, even turning him on his best friend, is enough to make him wary.

Deciding to skip dinner, and knowing that it’s going to be one long night, Castiel heads up to his bedroom and collapses on his bed, face down on the cool pillows.

He’s exhausted, his head and feet hurt, and the tension between his shoulders makes them feel like they’re about to snap. Today ranks pretty high up on the top five ‘Worst Day of My Life’ list. Castiel wishes he could just sleep for the next couple of weeks, and before he knows it, he’s standing on a dock…

•••

_One, two, three, four—_

_Walk, walk, to the Bayou._

_The dock Castiel stands on is worn and slippery, mist heavy and opaque as it plays tricks on his eyes, figures dancing too fast for him to see. Five more docks split from where he stands, far too close to the water to be safe, as if they were just floating instead of being supported by stilts. Some sides of the wooden planks are warped, and therefore flooded with seawater._

_There’s no source of light, but the world looks gray and still, stuck between dead and alive, like a field between the waking and the dreaming. It’s neither nightmare nor dream, but it isn’t a place that offers comfort._

_At the end of each flooded dock is a house made of rotten wood and zinc roof plates, doors off their hinges and windows covered in black tape. They all have palm tree leaves wrapped around the columns of their porches, colorful necklaces hanging from thin wires, jars of stones standing along the entrance, and tiny frail bones acting as wind chimes hang from the wooden beams._

_Castiel is dressed in white, raw silk pants and shirt, bare feet dirty with mud. He can smell fire and hear the sea, but all he sees are the ramshackle huts._

_A slow blink, and in the middle dock there’s a man, skinny enough to see rib and clavicle. He’s leaning on a walking stick, the countless necklaces around his neck clink-clanking as the wood sways._

_“What is this place?” The voice doesn’t quite belong to Castiel, despite the fact that it comes out of his mouth. “I’m dreaming, aren’t I?”_

_The man gives him a terse nod, draws a line on the wood with his toe. “It do not mean is no real.” His accent is strange, but Castiel doesn’t bother placing it. “Dark,” he says, tapping at his chest. “Reach you.”_

_There’s another figure behind the man, tiny and sitting crossed legged on the rotting planks. A mop of hair covers the boy’s face, and Castiel finds himself instinctively reaching for his son, but the man slams his walking stick down, causing a piece of the dock to float away. A skeletal finger wags in front of Castiel’s nose._

_“You can’t hurt him,” Castiel says._

_The man bows his head, and moves his hand towards the water._

_People stand neck-deep, dozens of them, unmoving. A wake with no point of origin makes the tepid water rise well past their noses, but even then they refuse to move. Dead in the water. Among them is Emily._

_Castiel opens his mouth to speak, shout, anything, but his voice is gone no matter how much he tries to mutter at least a sound. He stumbles back when the man’s stick hits his chest, too light to bruise, but there’s blood staining the front of his shirt._

_Castiel pushes forward as the stick pushes him back. Water laps at his ankles, making the mud swirl and cling higher up his leg. As much as he can sway in place, he can’t move, he can’t scream, and he can’t reach for his already dead son._

_One, two, three, four—_

_Go along and open the door._

_Let it free, oh Lord!_

_Go along and open the door!_

_Some say Hell is repetition, and as the words sway louder and louder in his ears, he’s certain that it is._

•••

The neon clock by his bedside blinks twenty to eleven, making Castiel dart up and run out the door without paying attention to the world around him, or the nightmare that smelled so real. He’s had enough practice in suppressing the uncomfortable feeling that comes upon waking up.

The fishing and importing docks are a half-hour drive from Autumn Hollow if he takes the coastal route, and as he parks by the toll booth he hopes this Benny person won’t be too annoyed by his ten minute set back. Nires is a lively island that never sleeps, despite its tight-knitted population. The roads are heavily congested.

Even after turning up the collar of his coat, Castiel’s teeth clatter with the cold, his breath coming out in puffs of vapor as he grudgingly walks down the parking lot and onto the pier.

Moonlight casts shadows along the boats, poles, and flags that flap wildly in the severe seaside wind, and Castiel is startled every so often when he sees something move. It’s not so much as scary, but he can name at least a dozen Stephen King novels with similar ambience.

Walking along pier 16, a man heavily wrapped in a coat and wearing a beret waves at him. 

Castiel recognizes him the moment he hears his voice; it’s the same man he saw sipping a carton of juice at the market a few weeks back. “You Castiel?”

“Benny,” Castiel says by way of greeting, refusing to shake his hand just for the sake of keeping them warm in his pockets. Luckily, Benny doesn’t reach out either, just cants his head in confirmation.

“We’ll make this brief since I’m about to freeze my nose off. What is it you want to know?”

“Anything you can tell me about Dean Winchester.”

Benny swipes a thumb under his nose and sniffs, his smile crooked and knowing. “Depends what ‘anything’ entitles. I can tell you a lot more than you’re ready to bargain for.”

His tone makes Castiel feel edgy, his southern drawl making his skin crawl, and denies the hint of jealousy that worms into his chest at the suggestiveness there. “Spare me the more graphic details,” Castiel says, just this side of cutting. “Is his history something I should be worried about?”

“Pretty shady question for his boyfriend to be asking.”

“Acquaintance,” Castiel corrects, flinches at his own harshness.

Benny nods his head, gives a half-shrug and pats Castiel’s shoulder. “No need for defensiveness here, brother. If I didn’t want to help, I wouldn’t have agreed to.” Turning on his heels, he gestures for Castiel to follow him down the pier. “The problem with that there question is that everybody on Nires Island has a less than favorable history. I trust you’re no exception.”

Shoulders stiff, Castiel gives a stiff nod. “I suppose.”

“Everyone here has a skeleton in the closet, some more literal than others. Don’t be too surprised when you open a door and a femur rolls out.”

If this is Benny’s idea of a joke, Castiel doesn’t find it funny. “All right, I get it, everyone has a terrible past. What human doesn’t?”

Benny holds up a finger. “Now, that’s racist. Don’t be contemptuous enough to assume that humans are the only ones with troubled pasts.”

Castiel sighs for the third time in under five minutes. He’s far too tired to put up with this. “I’m sorry, I’m sure my cat has had its tail stepped on countless times.”

“This is your problem.” Holding his hands before him, Benny connects his fingertips before slowly pulling them apart. “You’ve got to open up that mind.”

“Trust me, I’ve opened it enough.”

“Nope, no you haven’t. Even those with an open mind are too narrow-minded to see things that are so obviously put in front of ‘em. For example, you ain’t seeing me.”

“You’re right there.”

“But can you really see?” Benny steps up in front of him, turns to face Castiel with a tight lipped smile that would give any child nightmares. “I bet you can, but you’re thinking up a million and one plausible explanations as we speak.”

It’s just the moonlight, Castiel thinks, fighting the urge to roll his eyes at the display he knows is meant to spook him. Something white and sharp peeks out of the corner of Benny’s lip. “I’m not in the mood for riddles,” Castiel says, too exhausted to start arguing.

“Dean lives with ten tons of daddy issues, a rebel of a kid brother and a life he never chose. The guy’s fought tooth and nail to go against every instinct that’s been imbedded into him, Castiel, so cut him some slack and give him some credit.”

“I know this,” Castiel says, finally taking out a hand in favor of gripping at his own hair in exasperation. “He’s told me this, we’ve talked about it, but I know there’s more—”

“What do you want me to tell you? You wouldn’t believe half the things that came out of my mouth, and to be completely honest, I wouldn’t want to risk my hide for getting on his bad side.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“I wasn’t trying to.”

“Good, because it isn’t working.”

Benny sniggers. “There ain’t much I can say about Dean, but what I _can_ say, is that you really ought to check up on some sources. Do a little research of the unnatural kind.”

“Unnatural?”

“Unnatural,” he says with a tip of his head. “Has he sung to you lately? Or have you heard him sing? Don’t answer that. But it’s the only clue I’m giving you.”

Castiel is frowning, hating the fact that he’s lost a perfectly good night talking to a fisherman who sounds just as crazy as the entire ordeal. Then again, crazy is what he’s looking for. Maybe Benny’s cryptic rambling does have rhyme or reason. “Any suggestions as to where I should start my research?”

“We don’t have a library; I don’t think the internet would prove to be much help,” Benny says, thoughtfully scratching at his beard. He shrugs his massive shoulders when he gives up. “Hell if I know. No one believes in this crap anymore, so God knows if you can even find legit information.”

Not amused, Castiel reaches out a hand. “Thank you for your time.” It’s hard not to recoil at how cold Benny’s hand is, and the man smirks.

“Don’t mention it, Castiel. Dean says you’re a smart cookie, no doubt you’ll figure it out. That’s not to say you’ll be happy when you do, but…”

The night is far too cold for this conversation. “He’s not a serial killer,” Castiel says. It was intended as a question, but too late did Castiel notice that he doesn’t want to know the real answer.

Benny’s laugh is deep and grave. “Have a good night, now.”

Castiel’s hands don’t stop shaking during the long drive home.

Ignoring Benny’s suggestion that the internet won’t bring him any concrete answers, Castiel figures he won’t be able to sleep until he’s done a basic search. Sitting in his study and opening the web browser, Castiel stares at it for countless minutes. He has no idea where he should even begin, much less what he’s looking for.

An initial search on General Hawthorne brings back nothing besides his victories against the Rebels during the American Revolutionary War, and _World of Warcraft_. There’s a brief biography on both his deceased wives, but nothing worth noting.

Nires Island has an idiotically short page on Wikipedia that mentions the Annual Lobster Festival, and a quote of it being the most superstitious territory in Northeastern USA. The quote is cited for revision.

Next, Castiel tries every possible form of ‘superstitions in Maine’, only to bring back nothing other than Sasquatch and Irish faeries.

‘Convict haven in Maine’, ‘serial killers in Maine’, ‘strange deaths in Maine’ eventually brings up a news clip of a man whose necktie got jammed on the door of his car, and the car suddenly sped off at an impossible 40MPH. Strange, but not exactly what Castiel needs.

Castiel clicks links until the wee hours of the morning, hosting cup after cup of coffee, determined to find anything that might at least tip the scales towards whatever it is he’s looking for. 

Lenore is fast asleep on the desk beside his laptop, apparently borrowing some of the heat. Castiel occasionally leans over to scratch behind her ear.

At a quarter past four in the morning, he finds himself on a blog titled _The Real Story_ , where a scientist claims that NASA found a robot head on the moon. About to close the tab, tired enough to start believing what he’s reading, Castiel stares blearily at the links on the sidebar.

Uncaring if it’s spam or not, Castiel clicks one that claims NOAA found an actual mermaid. The video looks fake enough, but he’s briefly reminded of Bobby mentioning mermaids being part of local legends.

Giving up, Castiel slams the computer lid, picks Lenore up and makes his way over to the bedroom. The cat quickly rolls up on the pillow next to his, meowing once before her yellow eyes drift shut.

Stripping down to his boxers, Castiel gets beneath the covers and thinks.

Half-formed scenarios are just mixtures of color and sound, nothing solid or worthy of a lead. He mumbles sleepily, rolling onto his side when his mind drifts to a moment in his childhood, playing at Disneyland.

He’s startled awake at the sound of his phone blaring some song he doesn’t recognize, much less remembers setting as his ringtone. Castiel blindly reaches for it, grumbling into his pillow as he hits the answer button that flashes neon green.

_“Good morning, sleepyhead.”_

Castiel’s eye twitches, and mumbles a, “Good morning, Anna,” that’s muffled against the pillow.

_“Don’t tell me you’re still in bed, Cas. It’s almost ten.”_

Rolling onto his back, he looks over at the clock on the wall. True enough, it’s ten to ten. “Long night,” Castiel grumbles, having sworn he just closed his eye for a second. “Writing,” he quickly adds, in case Anna decides to misinterpret. “How are you?”

_“Dressed and waiting. You promised to show me around today.”_

“No, I didn’t,” he says with a scowl. “I said Tuesday.”

_“I know you did but the museum is closing for holiday and I don’t want to leave without having seen it. I checked the schedule and they open today.”_

“Okay, all right, I’ll see you around three o’clock.”

_“It closes at two.”_

Castiel sighs, loudly, and kicks off the sheets. After this week, he won’t have to see his family again for ages if he can help it. Might as well humor his favorite sibling. “I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

 _“Awesome. Lunch is on me.”_ Anna hangs up without saying goodbye, and Castiel fights the urge to roll back over and sleep until next month.

•••

“You look like hell,” are the first words that come out of Anna’s mouth the moment she slips into the passenger’s seat. Buckling up, she immediately turns to Castiel and puts a hand on his forehead. “Are you feeling okay?”

Castiel is aware of how red his eyes look, the dark circles underneath making them look far worse. His head is throbbing, his back hurts, probably due to severe spasms… He feels like shit. “I just haven’t been sleeping too well.” He gives her the best smile he can muster.

“Is it something to do with Dean?”

“Work,” Castiel lies, turning on the radio and lowering the volume to barely-perceptible. “The deadline is in a few weeks and I’m behind schedule.” He eases the car back into the main road. “Would you like to have lunch first?”

“The museum closes in a bit. Let’s make it dinner.”

They make a stop at the only gas station on the island. Anna moves quickly to pump the gas, ordering Castiel to grab himself some coffee while she does so. With minimal complaint, Castiel does as he’s told. Three minutes later, he walks towards her with coffee, a corn muffin, and a pack of aspirins.

Nires Island’s Maritime Museum could rival New York’s Museum of National History with its modern and stylish amenities. The parking lot is full and they have to pay an hourly toll to the security guard: a burly man who glares at the both of them as they walk by. By the front door, Anna and Castiel get neon pink paper bracelets.

As a writer, Castiel frequents museums and art galleries across the United States, in search of new threads of perspective. He’s created characters and drawn entire storylines from objects locked behind glass boxes or mounted on marble pedestals. It amazes him how a tiny nudge goes such a long way.

“They have a gift shop,” Castiel points out, gesturing towards the glass doors on the far left. “You may be able to get yourself a pet eel, or a lobster, depending on your taste.”

Anna punches him on the shoulder.

Choosing to take a walk around themselves, they skip the tour and weave their way around the maze of walls and model ships.

Castiel’s inner child weeps with joy as he walks around the Clipper exhibition, taking in the accurate scaling of the hull’s size, the masts and anchors and bowsprits. From 20-gunners to 100-gunners, there’s a model of nearly every type of ship that has touched America’s shores.

A bell belonging to the _HMS Interceptor_ is the prize exhibit of Nires’ museum. 

“Under the command of Captain Kingsford and Commodore Bennett,” Anna reads aloud from the inscription, “It arrived on May of 1797 at noon. The tide was too low to navigate through, causing her to run aground on a reef three miles off Maine’s coast.”

Castiel stands next to her, switching his attention from the plaque to the scale model. “What are the odds for the ship the commodore is sailing on to have an unfortunate end.”

“Says here that the ship was abandoned, most of its sailors injured. Generals Weatherby Black, Jack Fitzpatrick and Julian Hawthorne retired soon after the incident.”

“Then Hawthorne came to Nires Island and established the first and only community to date,” Castiel says, unsurprised at Hawthorne’s name surfacing in the museum.

The room is dark, with only the strategically placed lights that shine on exhibits, and the swirling blue waves meant to imitate water, illuminating the transparent floors. Beneath the glass under their feet, seashells and sparkling stones lay spread across thin sand. The museum is beautiful and smartly decorated in its theme, and Castiel wonders why they would even close during the holiday.

“What did you say Dean’s last name was?” Anna asks from the nautical journals section, calling Castiel over.

“Winchester. Why?”

“I think I may have found his ancestor.”

Intrigued, Castiel looks over her shoulder. It’s a hand-kept record from a ship’s captain, the scripture elegant and twirling, although the ink is just as faded as the paper it’s written on. At the very end of the list naming the ship’s sailors, is one Winchester, John.

“What year is this from?”

“Eighteen o’ one,” says a voice, startling them both. They turn around, and Castiel struggles to a put a name to the man before him, knowing he has seen him before. “Found that journal myself, and trust me when I say that you do not want to know how I came to own it.”

“Crowley,” Castiel says, finally recognizing him as one of Balthazar’s colleagues.

“The one and only. You’re that sod’s mate, right? What’s your name again… Castiel, is it?”

Castiel nods and places a hand between Anna’s shoulders. “This is my sister, Anna. Anna, Crowley.”

Crowley kisses her hand, and Castiel twitches uncomfortably at the sight. 

“You were saying? About finding this thing?” Anna asks.

“Retired archaeologist, in case you’re wondering. After a few years of watering my plants, I decided to open a museum to show off my little treasures. Hope you’re enjoying your walk-around.”

“Oh, we are,” Anna says, smiling in a way that’s both reserved and bright. “This place is fantastic.”

Crowley smiles at her although his dark eyes are on Castiel, sizing him up and down as if ready to eat. “Quite interesting, isn’t it? Some of the exhibits here are absolutely scrumptious.”

Anna laughs, forced enough to catch Crowley’s attention. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, mister. My brother’s taken.”

The man looks scandalized, and Castiel would have laughed if it weren’t for his attention being elsewhere. 

There’s a tour group walking close by, the guide confidently talking about the display of black and white pictures on the walls. Ignoring the questions Crowley is asking, Castiel moves closer to the group.

Behind a glass wall are blue fishnets, conch shells, and several pieces of splintered wood. The pictures, faded and shriveling at the edges, depict things that make Castiel’s skin crawl. He thinks to himself that those can’t possibly be real, and are just artists’ renderings of narrated events.

“Cryptozoologists from around the world have come to these very shores in search of answers for some of the most baffling accounts in nautical history. Since man took to the waters in search of life and new land, the never-ending expanse of blue ignited the imagination—from sea serpents that guarded the world’s ledge, to the sirens that lured sailors off their ships and into Davy Jones’ Locker. As recent as two years ago, scientists from Kyoto, Japan came in search of the mythological _Ningen_ : a humanoid creature believed to be native to Antarctica, seen photographed here on our very shores.”

Castiel inches closer, looking at the newer of the framed images. There’s a white blob walking along the shoreline—a white blob _with legs_ , but nothing else. The image is blurry, and serves to make it even more unsettling.

Anna walks up next to him, Crowley seeming to have wandered away. “What are we seeing?” she asks, hand on his elbow.

“Ocean lore, I think,” he says, looking at the rest of the collection.

A boy raises his hand. “What about the Kraken?”

The tour guide—Alfie, his nametag says—points at him with a smile. “Only the most terrifying beast in the seven seas. It probably doesn’t look anything like they show in the movies, but some marine biologists have found squids about the size of this building.” The group chuckles. “Anyone else have any questions about spooky fish?”

This time, it’s a little girl who raises her hand. “Mermaids?” she asks shyly, hiding her face against her father’s shirt.

“Mermaids,” Alfie repeats, pretending to think hard on how to answer the question. “The thing about mermaids, little girl, is that… you don’t really know they’re mermaids until you’re about to drown.” The girl gasps, but the tour guide playfully bumps her nose with a finger. “Legend has it that mermaids cast a spell called ‘Glamour’, that makes them look beautiful and perfect to the sailors they lure off the ships.”

“Like a vampire?” The question, sounding mocking, comes from one of the adults.

Alfie snaps his fingers. “Not really. I don’t know much about vampires, but I hear they make themselves look pretty to catch their ladies unaware. Not mermaids. Mermaids like to play with their food; and then there’s sirens, who are similar to mermaids but don’t have fins for legs. They adapt their shape and personality, make themselves irresistible and easily manipulate their victim’s love and desire. They’ll become what you need the most, whatever your heart desires. They’ll sing to you, and their song will sound so beautiful you’ll want to sit there and listen to them forever. You could die of hunger and thirst, they could amputate your leg in cold blood and you won’t even realize it. Mermaids and sirens, they’re beautiful, but oh-so-deadly. And when you’re underwater, struggling towards the surface, the last thing you’ll see… is the rotting, horrendous true face of the creature that seduced you into your own demise.”

The crowd is quiet, and Alfie slinks back with a shy chuckle, face turning red at having gotten carried away. “Anyways, if you follow me, we’ll get to see the different types of flags used during the naval battles of 1812…”

Anna goes to follow the group, but stops and turns to Castiel when he doesn’t budge. “Castiel?”

Wrenching himself free, he steps closer to the glass, taking in the pictures and old artifacts. His mind is running so fast he can feel his headache multiply, days’ worth of information processing themselves all at once as it slides on home.

It’s impossible, preposterous, but it clicks with such finality that it leaves Castiel reeling. Benny’s words, Missouri’s warnings, Anna’s concern… it all blends together with sickening precision, like a blurred painting finally being explained by its artist.

Glamour.

Castiel’s chest constricts, his stomach hollowing out and making unpleasant flips, threatening to return that corn muffin to the surface. It’s like every nightmare since _that_ night has morphed into a single mass that’s a hair’s breadth away from consuming him whole. The madness, the blankness of the pills, the grief, the horror, the strife and lust—nothing compares to the feeling wrapping and choking the air right out of him. Castiel has never felt anything like it.

“Cas, you’re scaring me. What is it?”

“We’re leaving.”

Castiel goes for the door, Anna quickly keeps up. “We just got here!”

“I’m sorry, Anna, but there’s something I have to tend to.”

Being the understanding sibling she is, Anna lets it go and follows him out into the parking lot.

•••

Instead of going home directly after dropping Anna off, Castiel turns the car around and drives to Placid Hill.

Despite his earlier complaints about having to spend his Sunday helping the locals decorate the vast expanse of flat land, Castiel desperately welcomes the distraction. Overthinking in the solitude of his home would only drive him towards doing something he will later regret, he knows this, and so being surrounded by bizarrely cheerful neighbors is just what he needs. Balthazar insists that it’s a good idea to put himself in a positive environment.

Castiel turns the radio on and raises the volume, listens to the folk music that blares around him, the banjos and the fiddles making his pulse jump to the lively beat. It helps drown out the white noise swirling in the back of his mind. He refuses to linger on it, refuses to think about the pools of half-formed theories, and the drive turns out to be shorter than he expected.

His cell phone rings as he parks alongside the road, but he sees Dean’s name flashing on the screen, and he lets it go to voicemail. Castiel makes sure to set the phone to vibrate.

Placid Hill is a flat hilltop covered in lilac evergreens that sway in the late autumn breeze. At the very center stands a live oak, somehow smaller than the two which decorate his front yard, with its bottom branches low enough for children to climb and moss to graze the grass.

The area isn’t crowded, only a dozen people or so fussing around and putting together a stage and several tents. Others wrap thick rope around the tree, and upon closer inspection, Castiel notices it’s actually a string of fairy-lights, and they hang from the branches to the colorful booths. Lamp posts circle the clearing like a barrier, about the height of Castiel’s hip.

It all looks terribly insipid, leaving Castiel to hope that the festival will live up to his expectations.

Among the sea of strangers, he spots Balthazar helping a young man move a long table under the center tent. 

The thought that Castiel knows no one else here bothers him more than he would care to admit.

“Glad you decided to join us,” Balthazar says, depositing a bag of tablecloths into Castiel’s arms. “Make yourself useful and take that to Mrs. Hart.” He points in the direction of a blonde woman wearing an ugly, orange and black dress.

Castiel’s glare is hard, but lets out a sigh and does as he’s told. Deciding to act like an adult, he supposes that it’s better to just let off some steam, instead of diving head-first into an argument.

He loses count of the amount of times old ladies comment on his looks, asking if there’s a Mrs. Novak waiting back home; and then there’s the feistier bunch that opts to slap his rear whenever he walks by. He tries his best to excuse himself, evading the group conglomerates and preferring to walk a wide path around the tree rather than walk near the women, no matter how much longer the path is made.

After a handful of months it’s no surprise that people got wind of the famous published author in their midst, and they all whisper in awe that C.J. Novak is among them, helping them put together a tradition that’s been held sacred for years. No doubt they’re proud of having him, but Castiel wishes they would stop labeling him as the outsider. All he wants is to be ignored.

Castiel delivers the bag to Mrs. Hart, who blesses his soul and rips the bags open, pulling out the orange slabs of cloth. It’s a repulsive color, but he guesses it’ll blend nicely once everything else is put in place.

In a moment of respite, having no current orders or favors asked, Castiel wanders back towards the tree. 

He lets his fingers run along the old flaky trunk, pulling fruitlessly at a chip when he hits a snag. High above are two teenagers finishing up the last of the lighting, talking loudly and discussing their latest exploits, namely sneaking a peek into the girls’ gym locker room.

Castiel swats away a flowing thread of moss.

Live oaks are common in the south, something he knows from traveling to New Orleans nearly a decade ago. He also remembers seeing them in Georgia. Squinting at this particular specimen’s thick branches, still heavy and green despite the world having gone dry around it, he notes how the tree is just another odd thing at Nires Island. He wonders if it was planted here on purpose.

Minding nothing but his step, Castiel doesn’t pay attention to what's ahead of him as he makes his way around the tree. He nearly gasps aloud when he looks up and finds himself inches away from freckled skin and bright green eyes.

“Jesus, Dean!”

Dean laughs, bright as the afternoon sun that hangs above them. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Just… don’t do that. Ever,” Castiel says, far too defensive, he knows, but he doesn’t care. 

He turns and walks towards the tent, hand on his chest as he tries to calm his heart.

“Sorry, man. Most people find that romantic. You know, you laugh too, we hold hands and roll around on the grass.” Dean is being sarcastic, but there’s no malice behind it. “Not that I know; chick flicks aren’t my thing. But Sammy? Kid needs an intervention.” 

When his words get no response, Dean spits out, “Dude, what’s with the attitude?”

“Nothing.” Castiel’s movements are stiff and abrupt, grabbing the few chairs that have been abandoned and folding them, placing them back against the pile. He doesn’t turn to face Dean, because he’s not sure how he’ll react.

Anger and hurt and disbelief burst all at once in Castiel’s chest. Maybe the feeling spurns from seeing Dean’s joyfulness: he exhibits not a single care in the world as he bewitches Castiel with his presence alone. There’s no guilt in his eyes, nothing that’ll betray Dean being uncomfortable at what he’s doing to him.

Or maybe Castiel is just fucking insane.

“Cas?” Dean’s hand wraps around Castiel’s wrist, stilling his movements. His grip is firm but gentle, almost soothing against Castiel’s rapid pulse.

Fear.

It’s not fear at what Dean probably-maybe is, but fear at the fact that Castiel is probably-maybe sure of it and still considers the touch comforting when it should be inflicting paralyzing terror.

No one seems to mind having two men nearly holding hands in their presence. People at Nires are an exceptionally accepting lot.

“Cas, talk to me.”

“Yes, we’ll talk. That’s exactly what we’ll do,” Castiel says, hushed and resigned as he walks away from the small crowd.

Dean follows until they reach a barren part of the mesa near the line of booths, where he spins Cas around and leans in for a kiss, but is left looking gobsmacked when Castiel looks away. 

A heavy silence follows, and Castiel fights down the urge to kiss the wounded look away from Dean’s face. He focuses on the sun that makes sweat gather at the base of his spine despite the cold.

“I want you to tell me the truth, Dean,” he says without preamble, keeping himself as physically far away as possible without risking taking a tumble down the hill. “The real truth, if there even is one.”

Dean's wide green eyes go even wider, his brows furrowing in confusion, masked behind a façade of amusement. “The hell are you talking about, Cas? What truth?”

Castiel’s face falls blank, an expression he’s used countless times at meetings with his editor. It’s the only one he trusts to not slip in the onslaught of sadness that rips through his chest. “God, I don’t know, Dean. The truth! The real truth about—about who you are. Who you really are.” Of course, not even that mask can hold.

This time, Dean crosses his arms and stands straighter. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.” Shrugging his bottom lip, Dean sounds off, “I can start with admitting that I’m an Aquarius.”

Castiel’s face turns stormy as he sneers. “I am not joking.”

Dean immediately sobers up, lets his hands fall back to his sides as he sighs in exasperation. “I don’t know what else you want me to tell you. I’m a part-time mechanic who—”

“ _What you are_ , Dean! I want to know what you fucking are!”

Silence rings, deafening after the outburst, like all of the sound has been sealed out of the bubble they currently stand in. Thankfully no one strays over to see what the yelling is all about. Everyone most likely heard him, anyways.

Castiel’s fists are clenched, body tense and tired at having Dean play with him. Along with the electricity that crackles around him, Castiel knows there’s nothing normal about the man standing in front of him, in torn jeans and a plain black shirt.

And then it’s there, a slight shift in Dean’s eyes where they glint from green to a swirling gold to their usual green hue again.

There’s no lighting anomaly to be blamed, and it’s all the proof Castiel needs to step away.

“Get away from me.”

“Cas, hold on a sec.”

“No! You get away from me, or I swear to God I’ll—” The words lodge in his throat. He can’t say them even if he wanted to.

Dean’s holding up his hands in a sign of surrender, as if the gesture will prove that he’s harmless as he slowly creates a distance far enough to allow Castiel to breathe. “Let me explain—”

“Shut _UP!_ ” The words are so vicious that it takes Castiel a moment to realize that he’s the one that screams them. “Just, shut up! You have no right to even talk to me!”

“I was going to tell you,” Dean says, placating, talking slow and low, trying to come off as calming. It doesn’t work.

“Were you? When?” Castiel can feel his cheeks get hotter. “When were you going to tell me, Dean? When I was ten feet underwater, seconds away from seeing you swim away with my soul?” His tone turns deceptively cool, but Dean doesn’t buy it. He keeps his distance. “You can take your stupid game elsewhere, feed on anyone else, but you’re not going to have me.”

“It’s not like that, Cas,” Dean pleads, the collected coldness in his face melting away into a hurt expression. “Dammit, just… let me explain. I can’t control it.”

Castiel walks past him, towards his car when the feelings all overtake him. “Don’t follow me.”

“Cas!”

“I said don’t follow me!”

He whips around, sees the people turning to them. Castiel is momentarily thrown off when he sees Meg leaning against a table, attentively listening in. His attention is snapped back when Dean stands close enough to kiss, but he’s only whispering sharply for Castiel to hear. 

“I know what this looks like. I don’t know how much you know, but it isn’t as bad you might think it is. Two minutes, just two minutes, it’s all I need.”

“None of this is real,” Castiel says instead, refusing to give him ground. “If you want to explain, start with that. Start with telling me if this…” Castiel taps a finger over his own heart, “is real. Tell me, Dean.”

Time is suspended as they stare at each other, long and hard and both unyielding. A steady shaking makes its way up Castiel’s body, starting from the soles of his feet, and up his spine, all the way to the base of his head. The feeling is sickening and desperating, like a man about to drown.

When Dean looks down at his boots, Castiel feels like he’s about to die. 

He’s known pain, he’s known grief, and this is unlike anything he’s ever shouldered before.

Castiel stumbles back, hand clasped over his mouth. He yanks it away when his eyes begin to sting.

“So that’s that. I don’t really... love you? I don’t really _need_ you or—or _long_ for you? It’s just some goddamned side-effect to this—this curse?” A hysterical chuckle rips itself out of Castiel’s mouth. “All that time, all you ever did was play along, manipulate me? You manipulated my thoughts and feelings—you played with me like some doll.” He says those last words with a hint of shocked wonder.

The way Dean had riled him up in his front yard. The helping hand at the bar. Paying for dinner. Staying the night to keep those nightmares at bay when in truth Castiel had been kissing the nightmare’s mouth, worshiping its murmured promise of pleasure, and craving its touch.

The sob that rips out of Castiel’s mouth ripples through his chest, and it feels like his very soul has escaped him with the sound.

“You fed off my grief, my anger, my loneliness; made a goddamned feast fit for a king! Ever since day one, all you did was trick me into thinking you cared for me and tricked me into trusting you?” 

He has to hear it; the acceptance or the denial. 

The anger ebbs away, like an old woman’s hands pulling away the thread that has snarled in her tapestry, and it’s with trepidation that Castiel notices it’s not his own doing. It cannot possibly be. In the same way Castiel doesn’t openly discuss his feelings, he doesn’t easily forgive.

The point is made clear when he’s overwhelmed with the urge to fall into Dean’s arms, to kiss him, touch him, claim him…

Castiel lurches himself away, wrestling out of invisible arms that threaten to crush him. He’s crumbling, stripped bare and bleeding and he needs to get away.

He begins to stumble unsteadily towards his car again.

“Don’t come near me, don’t touch me, don’t you ever call me again. I want you out of my life. If I so much as hear you, as God as my witness, I will take action against you. I will find a way.” The numbness is perhaps more terrifying than anything Castiel has ever heard come out of his own mouth.

Fumbling for his keys and tripping across a small rock lodged within the dry earth, Castiel at last gets behind the wheel of his car. 

He sees a group of people still watching, some of their faces creased with worry and concern, others looking amused or smug.

_Everyone here has a skeleton in the closet, some more literal than others._

Benny’s words ring loud and clear in his head, and he finally makes the connection, pieces the sickening realization snapping together. 

They all know. Everyone on the island knows.

The wounded look on Dean’s face as he staggers away is now gone, and now all that’s left are handsome features contorted into something ugly and wrathful.

Castiel’s eyes frantically go from Dean to Balthazar, to Meg, to Mrs. Hart, and lastly Dean again, before he’s putting the car in reverse, and racing out at breakneck speed.

It will be an honest miracle if he makes it home without driving himself into a fatal crash.


	7. The Aid

Castiel slams the front door shut, nearly dislocating its hinges with the force of the impact. Forehead pressed to its wood, he takes a moment to gather up his thoughts that range from leaving the island to wholly giving himself over to Dean and his twisted machinations. Either choice scares him half to death, leaves him standing there, helpless and distraught.

Manipulated or not, those feelings were there, still are, stronger than anything Castiel has ever experienced. That knowledge that they are a lie makes him cry like a child, sobbing into his sleeve where he stands, body trembling with exhaustion and sorrow.

Blinking tears out of his eyes, he sees the floor wet.

He steps away and notices that the water has come from outside, but not even stormy weather could make it slip that far beneath the door. The rest of the kitchen and dining room are dry.

Taking a deep breath, Castiel takes a towel from the laundry basket he had left in the living room and dries the foyer. He debates whether or not to fix the salt line, considering how useless it’s been from the start, but he does it anyway. Some peace of mind is better than none.

The temptation to call Missouri is strong, and he isn’t the least bit surprised when his house phone starts to ring. A short moment later he notices that his cell phone isn’t in his pant pocket.

Cursing under his breath, he rummages through the mess of pillows on top of his couch in search of his phone. He finds it wedged between two cushions.

“Hello?”

 _“Tell me what’s wrong, Castiel.”_ Missouri’s deep voice and rich southern accent is calming, almost like a mother’s attention.

“What? Did you pick up a disturbance in the force?” Castiel snaps, and he immediately regrets it when he hears her tut over the line.

_“Don’t you sass me, boy. It’s a small island, word spreads fast. I heard about your not-so-little argument at Placid Hill.”_

“Dean is a mermaid. Or, a siren, I can’t tell the difference. At least, I think that’s what he is. I spoke to Singer and Benny, and then I went to the nautical museum and it all just fit together seamlessly.” He stopped to take a long shuddering breath. “His eyes flashed gold.”

There’s the sound of rustling papers over the line, Missouri muttering something he doesn’t catch. _“That explains heck of a lot.”_

“All those people knew. Everyone knows about these things… and you never told me,” Castiel says, accusation sharp and angry.

Missouri doesn’t make a sound for a brief moment. _“Sometimes, it’s best to see things for yourself.”_

“Of course, leave the new guy to fend for himself in a land of monsters.” Castiel makes his way to the living room, reclines himself against the back of his couch.

_“Nires Island is a sanctuary, a safe ground. No one here will harm you or any other living thing. And not all of us are beasties, I’ll have you know. I came here by choice when I discovered I had a gift, you came here to get away from your past.”_

“I ran away from the frying pan to jump into the fire pit.” Castiel blinks in the direction of Lenore, who rolls around in the mess of unfolded laundry. “What about Balthazar?”

_“Oh, no, he’s as human as they get. His partner on the other hand… I hear he’s quite the angel.”_

“Oh, God.” Castiel groans, feeling severely ill to his stomach. “Does that mean Benny’s actually a vampire?”

_“Not a vegetarian, but I hear he only takes donations.”_

“This is such bullshit,” he mumbles, letting himself go around to slump onto the couch. His head is aching, his eyes still burn from the tears, and he still feels like his heart has been ripped out and its remains danced on. Talking to Missouri makes it a bit easier. “What happens when a monster goes bad?”

_“No citizen has ever broken their contract since the community was founded. And if one does, the sheriff will see to their punishment.”_

“Dean’s looking at a load of trouble, then.”

_“Now, why would you say that?”_

Castiel straightens up. “He put me under a spell, Missouri. I’m sorry, but I refuse to sit around and wait for him to drag me under.”

 _“Oh, you poor thing…”_

Castiel harrumphs, but is confused at what follows. 

_“You poor, foolish thing.”_

“What?”

_“You still think Dean is the cause of those nightmares of yours, of that blackness that’s been following you around.”_

Unsettled, Castiel stands up and walks over to his record library. “He isn’t? How are you so sure?”

_“If you are indeed right, and Dean is a siren, this automatically clears his name. You see, a siren’s song is old, powerful and a bit dubious in its intentions. This thing, this smog that’s trailing behind you is relatively new. Where Dean’s magic is naturally benevolent, this mojo is dark and evil and all-consuming.”_

A surge of hope threatens to overwhelm him, making his fingers tremble where they wrap around the phone, but he refrains from lingering on it. “What kind of magic is new?”

_“Voodoo.”_

“How is voodoo possibly new?”

_“What you’re thinking of is hoodoo, a religious belief that was brought by the African slaves. Voodoo is the bastard child of that religion, taken out of context, stripped of its gods and saturated in human greed and vengeance.”_

Castiel tries to reconcile the image of rag dolls stabbed with thin needles, but— “I had a dream about that…” Missouri doesn’t speak, so he takes it as his cue to continue.

He tells her about the dream where he saw Jeremy and Emily, where the man tapped his chest with the stick and he’d bled. He left out no detail, explaining the smells and the feelings, and the charms that hung from the porches.

After he’s finished, neither of them speaks for so long that Castiel thinks the line is cut, but then Missouri gives a long exhale that makes him feel on edge.

 _“I know this may be hard for you,”_ she says, speaking cautiously. _“Castiel, I need you to tell me the state your family was found in.”_

Swallowing a jagged rock would be easier. 

His hands shake where they grip the wooden display mounted on the wall. Castiel speaks fast, worried that the words won’t come out if he doesn’t. “Emily was... she was... m-missing her clothing, no heart. Jeremy was found staked.” The last word breaks, and Castiel struggles to fill his lungs with air. “ _I_ found him... with a stake in.... How—why is it important?”

_“That might help decipher what they want. Do you have any enemies? Anyone that might be holding a grudge against you?”_

Despite her gentle tone, Castiel snorts. “I don’t mingle with humans sick enough to murder a five-year-old boy.”

 _“Oh dear Lord, it pains me so to hear of such things,”_ Missouri says, her voice nearly a whisper.

Castiel looks towards the ceiling. If he doesn’t steer clear of the gaping abyss that is his past, he isn’t sure what he might do. He’s sure he can’t handle any more grief than the one that’s already so close to devouring him. “I don’t think the salt lines are working,” he says as a means of distraction.

Missouri sniffs, and Castiel can picture her wiping her eyes. _“Why would you say that, honey?”_

“Dean crossed them just fine.”

The short bark of laughter gives Castiel a severe case of whiplash. _“You are so dense sometimes. Castiel, salt keeps out things that wish you harm.”_ She says the words slowly, trying to get him to understand.

Lenore rubs against Castiel’s leg, purring loudly as he stands there, in the middle of the room, unsure of what to do or think. “He told me he couldn’t turn it off. The song, I mean. Or, I think that’s what he meant.”

_“That’s unfortunate, but hardly his fault.”_

“I don’t know what to do,” he confides. The urge to call Dean and apologize is so powerful, he can feel his finger already over the telephone’s end-call button. “I thought I was better. I thought I had finally moved on.” His voice quivers. “Six years’ worth of pain whisked away in the blink of an eye, only to find that it was all a lie.” Castiel is certain he sounds like a broken record, but he’s struggling with the disbelief of the entire revelation.

 _“It’s really not my place to comment on this particular situation; I’ve never really been under the influence of a siren song, so my opinion is hardly important, much less correct.”_ Missouri pauses when Castiel hears a kettle whistling. _“But I will tell you this. Grief is powerful enough to trump any emotion that might come tumbling in, and not everybody deals with it in the same fashion. Some are strong and others are weak. Some choose to forget by gambling, others by ignoring such a thing even happened. Drugs, alcohol, sex, art, even madness can be products of great tragedies.”_

Castiel worries the inside of his bottom lip. “Your point being?”

_“My point being that maybe this is a blessing rather than a curse.”_

Moving over to the window and drawing the curtains, Castiel sees his hands trembling. “If there isn’t anything else, I’d like to call it a day.” It’s rude, he knows, but he can’t continue the conversation.

_“I hope your day looks up, Castiel. Get some rest, and don’t hesitate to give me a call whenever you want to talk.”_

“I’m okay.” The words are instinctual by now. He’s been told the ‘call me if anything happens’ line countless times, as if everyone expects him to break down every time a fly buzzes by. Maybe he will, maybe he won’t, but he sure as hell doesn’t plan on asking anybody for help.

Missouri hangs up after a beat, probably debating whether to say something else or not, and choosing not to.

Castiel throws the phone on the nearest couch and takes the stairs to his room.

The house is quiet again, but it isn’t the heavy kind of silence that makes him shudder at things to come. His surroundings feel tranquil as he grabs some clean clothing for his shower, but it isn’t enough to dull the lights in his eyes that signify an oncoming migraine.

He’s surprised when a bottle of pills rolls around the drawer when he flings a t-shirt over his shoulder. Taking the bottle, he gives it a shake and reads the description, just like he does every time. Ever since he moved in, he’s kept the medication next to his kit inside a drawer of the desk in his study. To be honest, he has no idea what they’re doing in his dresser.

Castiel considers taking some normal aspirins for the headache, but his skin begins to itch, his blood burning with a kind of need he’s learned to hate throughout the years. With the help of rehab and Balthazar’s yelling matches, he’s learned how to curb his dependency to nearly nonexistence, but sometimes it’s hard to ignore the bliss a high brings.

He can just take two, get a few hours of happy numbness and loose limbs, and that’s that. He’ll put them away again, forget they are even there. 

Resigned, Castiel takes the bottle along with his clothes into the bathroom.

Nausea suddenly makes itself known, and Castiel groans at how hungry he is. He makes a mental note to grab a bowl of cereal before settling in to watch a movie, right after he finishes his shower.

A routine. He needs a blank routine to get him by, to not think about anything. Castiel needs a normal kind of boring distraction.

With the water running, Castiel finds yet another bottle of pills on the sink. Picking them up, he gingerly twirls it around his fingers. “How did you get out here?” Aspirins.

Castiel sighs, takes it as a sign, and puts down the amphetamine in favor for something that might actually work on dealing with his headache. “You win this time.” He pops back four tablets dry.

Clearing his throat, he undresses and steps into the shower.

Steam is trapped between the wall and the shower doors, something Castiel greatly enjoys when he’s feeling out of it. Hot enough to leave his skin red, the water sluices his body and works at melting away the knots along his shoulders and back. He stands there for minutes on end, letting the water wash his troubles down the drain.

It starts when Castiel moves to grab the soap, and realizes that his fingers and hands are numb. Alarm sets in when his vision swims, and panic thrashes inside him when his stomach snaps and viciously twists, making him choke out a cry that can’t even work its way out of his throat. Eyes wide, he lurches forward when another twist comes. 

He sees the red string wrapped around the shower head like a snake made of yarn.

Castiel tries to move away, to climb out of the shower or shut off the water, but something black dashes past the corner of his eye. It flows like smoke, but its solid form calls out a distortion of his name.

Castiel is falling.

•••

The sound of crashing waves pulls Castiel from darkness, soft sprays misting his face as he groans and tries not to move too much. Mind fogged and eyes blurry, he thinks he’s dreaming, perhaps dying or already dead, and he’s about to wake up to an inferno of brimstone and sulfur.

It’s warm, however, and comfortable. Castiel doubts Hell would go to such lengths to makes its new arrivals feel safe and at peace. He wiggles his toes, and they drag on what he notices are heavy fabrics.

Castiel is wrapped in a cocoon of bed sheets and comforters, head nestled on the most comfortable pillow he’s ever slept on. His body, relaxed as it is, sinks into the delicious feeling.

His eyes blink as they adjust themselves to the darkness, only to find that there’s dull yellow light spilling from someplace by him. He doesn’t know where he is, try as he may to identify his surroundings, but he doesn’t feel immediate danger.

“You awake?”

Castiel’s eyes drift downward, and silhouetted against the window is Dean, holding a thermos and a cup. “I think so,” he answers, squinting up at Dean as he moves over and squats beside him. “Where are we?”

Dean’s hand is warm as it caresses the side of Castiel’s face. “The lighthouse.”

Leaning into the touch, Castiel sighs and frowns. “Why?”

“Because, it’s the only place we’ll be able to talk.”

Castiel turns away to stare at the ceiling, face growing hot in annoyance. “I said I didn’t want to—” He stops when he hears the rattling of pills. “Oh.”

“Oh? That’s all you’ve got to say for yourself?” Dean’s voice goes higher, and Castiel is sure he’s never heard him this pissed off.

“That isn’t any of your business.”

“Not my… Do you realize that I came here because Balthazar asked me to? Because you wouldn’t answer your goddam phone? Your sister tried calling, every fucking person you know came knocking on your door and you didn’t answer. I was the last resort and I had to bust my way in…” Dean holds a fist over his mouth and gets up, walks around the steel railing until he stops by the only open glass. “I found you, Cas. I found you on the floor, cold, unresponsive. I thought you were dead!”

With a strength born out of anger, Castiel watches Dean spin and fling the bottle out the window and into the ocean.

“So you better think twice before saying that it isn’t any of my damn business, because it is, Cas. _It is._ ”

Castiel doesn’t say anything, just stares blankly at Dean’s darkened form from his place on the floor. He’s angry that Dean thinks he’s responsible for him in any kind of way, and angry that Dean went against his warning to stay away.

“Go ahead, give me the silent treatment, I don’t give a fuck. But you’re not moving until I say you’re well enough to do so.”

Bristling, Castiel shuts his eyes and immediately falls back asleep.

•••

The next time he comes to, the sun is out and the waves have gone quiet. Everything looks gray.

He’s surprised to see Dean still there, sitting by his feet, engrossed in a book.

Dean only moves when Castiel stretches out, his feet falling on Dean’s lap. The hand that isn’t holding the book falls on top of Castiel’s covered ankles and gives them a light squeeze, but he doesn’t look up from the page.

He closes his eyes to sigh, and when he opens them again, Castiel discovers that it’s already late afternoon.

Dean’s hands are firmly pushing at Castiel’s shoulders to get him leaning back against the wall. He’s still wrapped in the endless amount of sheets, a blessing judging by how cold the day looks, frosting the lighthouse windows. A cup of rich-smelling tea is being held beneath his nose.

“Drink up,” Dean orders, pressing the back of his hand over Castiel’s cheek, neck and forehead, probably checking for any signs of a fever. “Missouri blended some herbs that’ll get you going in no time.”

The rosemary clashes with something he can’t name. “Missouri was here?”

“Along with the rest of everyone. Ellen, Jo, Bobby, the magi -- hell, even Benny dropped by.” Dean leans forward to properly tuck the sheet along the crooks of Castiel’s body. “Wasn’t lying when I said you gave us all a scare.”

Fuzziness settles in Castiel’s gut, making him sigh in dismay. The feeling is strange, foreign, and he knows Dean has something to do with it. Unfortunately for him, he’s too tired and dazed to care.

“I don’t know how that happened,” Castiel explains, taking a tentative sip from his tea. “I’ve taken far more before.”

Castiel doesn’t flinch at the stony look Dean gives him.

“You didn’t OD. You were poisoned.”

Choking out a cough, Castiel puts the cup down before shaking hands spill the steaming contents over his lap. “Care to explain how that’s possible?”

After sitting on the floor, Dean rubs at his tired eyes. “We checked the house after I got you out. There was something hiding in your attic, just standing there like it owned the place, like it was waiting for something. Put up a hell of a fight, too. Couldn’t kill it, but we chased it out. Missouri did a cleaning session before re-salting the entire house.” Dean shakes his head, looking down at his hands as if they held some sort of answer. “Anyways, she peeked at the bottle and found the tablets reeked of black magic.”

Castiel forces down another gulp of tea when Dean moves to guide the hand holding the cup to his mouth. He’s shaking in his mismatched pajamas. “Someone tried poisoning me with magic.” He’s met with nothing but silence. “What was it?”

“In the attic? Pretty sure it’s the same thing that’s been after you. Benny thinks it’s some sort of wraith.”

Castiel gags violently, his body trembling with what he thinks is exertion.

His blood feels as if it’s _burning_ its way through his veins, scorching his heart as well as every other organ it comes in contact with. It’s rehab all over again, and the sensation is so similar to withdrawal that it frightens him.

He’s both hot and cold, and is teetering over the edge of passing out. “What…?”

Dean’s hand squeezes Castiel’s, cool fingers feeling strange on his warmer palms. “That isn’t the poison,” Dean says, looking heartbroken.

“D—Dean?”

“It’ll pass, just give it a few minutes. And drink your tea.”

Castiel dry heaves, nearly convulsing when he feels something dislodge itself from his chest and fall into his stomach. It hurts as much as the twisting he experienced in the shower, perhaps more, once the throbbing in the back of his head starts to tug at his attention. The mug rolls away from him, drink soaking the old wood when he moves to grab his stomach.

And then it’s gone.

There’s a moment that feels like the cold of the late autumn day has seeped into the small area, like the water is filling his lungs, peaceful despite its freezing temperatures. Then, the air is warm again, charged with energy that makes his skin buzz. He feels as if he’s waking up from a long dream, the leftover grogginess of drugs finally draining away and leaving him raw and exposed. Castiel feels tired, but he feels light. He feels calm, but then anger knifes through him with such an intensity he wants to punch Dean square in the jaw.

Dean’s smile is bitter, his eyes lackluster as they stare blankly at him. He looks different, Castiel decides, but he can’t name what it is. Maybe his hair is duller, or his ears uneven. There’s a change in the being sitting across from him, and Castiel can’t choose between feeling angry or relieved.

“Guessing it worked then,” Dean says, trying to sound uninterested while drumming fingers against his knees. “How’s it feel?”

Castiel looks around himself, blinks back a surprised gasp when he sees the bright red scribbles all over the walls and ceiling. 

Stars and symbols, words in letters he’s only appreciated in old books and seen in movies. His mind runs, tries to round up all of the information he’s been fed over the course of a few days, piecing them together before he can breathe normally again. “What is all this?”

“Suppression charms. It took me a while to get them right, and Missouri found a few typos yesterday, but it should be able to work.”

“What are they meant to suppress?” Castiel asks sharply, ready to bolt out into the staircase and out the door. Shaky legs be damned.

“Any form of magic. These were specifically made for a siren’s song, personalized by yours truly.” Dean sounds proud, ducking his head with a smirk. “What it means is that, while in here, you’re free of my spell.”

“Oh, um,” Castiel hums thoughtfully, hands fisting the flannel sheets. “Is that why I have this urge to punch you so hard your ancestors will feel it?”

Dean scoffs, shrugs nonchalantly. “Maybe, yeah. Fair warning, though, you might break your hand.”

The corner of Castiel’s lip twitches. He gets what Dean is saying, although he can’t picture the logic behind it. It makes little sense that Dean, nonhuman creature that he is, would risk returning full rein to Castiel. It all sounds like a bad paperback novel.

“I don’t know,” Castiel says, answering Dean’s earlier question. “I don’t know how I feel. Angry, mostly. Betrayed.”

He watches the play of emotions on Dean’s face, and Castiel notices the small imperfections there for the very first time. Sadness, insecurity, self-loathing—all which Castiel has seen in the mirror countless times.

The intense satisfaction Castiel feels is overwhelming. It’s cold, bordering on harsh, but he is glad that Dean looks so conflicted and upset.

“Fair enough,” Dean says, face settling into a blank mask eerily similar to Castiel’s own practiced façade. “You’ll be safe here. Stay as long as you need.”

Castiel forces the question out. “Why did you do this?”

He watches Dean get to his feet and reach for the leather jacket that is folded over a rusted railing. His movements are slow and cautious as he slips it on.

“It doesn’t matter why. Consider yourself lucky I got to you before any of the others did.”

“You mean to tell me you consider yourself some big hero?”

“I’ve been saving your ass since the moment you stepped onto this goddamned island.”

“By controlling me and shoving me headfirst into something I didn’t even want?” Castiel sneers, fury curling all the way up his spine. 

Dean recoils at the words as if he’s been stung. “I never forced you into anything and you know that, for a fact!”

“Being brainwashed into thinking you’re in love doesn’t sound all that consensual to me, Dean.” Castiel’s words cut and slice, and he’s pleased to see Dean flinch and take another step back at each one he spits out. “I don’t care what your intentions are, but I didn’t ask for this.”

Straightening himself up, Dean turns his face towards one of the open windows. He’s still, his hands clenched at his sides as he seems to debate something for a long moment.

“You’re right,” he says at last, turning to Castiel with an unruffled look. “I shouldn’t have crossed those lines. I should have just let you to rot in your own bubble of self-hatred. I shouldn’t have—” The words trail off, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he tries to get the words out. “The right thing would have been to keep my distance.”

“Yes, perhaps it would have.”

Dean takes out Castiel’s phone from his jacket pocket, and places it by his side. “You dropped it when you ran off.” He walks towards the stairs without looking back, shoulders stiff. “If there’s anything you need, call the magi.”

Castiel watches his back recede into the darkness of the staircase. A troubling finality steals over him, a feeling that he fights to not worry over.

His resentment isn’t irrational. Every single moment spent between them, calm and easygoing, has been a fabrication of _Other_. A means to an end; a list of ulterior motives he’s yet to decipher.

None of it was ever real, and he’s out now. Castiel is free of it, and he hates himself for wanting Dean back.

•••

_This time, Castiel knows he’s dreaming._

_He’s still in the lighthouse, sitting on the ledge of one of the open windows and watching the waves break, their spray misting his face. The moon is big, yellow, and just out of Castiel’s reach. If he leans up a few inches, he’s sure he can brush his fingertips against the grainy surface of it._

_There’s a sail boat a few miles off shore, swaying aimlessly in the night wind. It’s only a spot against the bruised purple color of night, and maybe it’s a lantern that allows Castiel to see it._

_“It’s very peaceful here,” says a woman, dressed in flowing gowns of white belonging to another time. “The view from the attic was always my favorite.”_

_Castiel isn’t perturbed by her presence, but her appearance is something that worries him. She smells of cinder and smoke, but her lips are blue, and her golden curled hair is charred at the ends._

_Her fingers are cold where they land over his own folded hands._

_“Who are you?”_

_“I am…” She looks up at the sky, as if she’ll find the answer there. “I can’t remember. It’s not like I call myself, after all.”_

_Castiel looks out towards the water, watches the boat’s lantern fade. “Are you a ghost?”_

_The woman picks at a lock of hair while leaning out the window, pursing her lips. She seems friendly, lively even in death. But there’s a loneliness there, and Castiel’s heart breaks for her. “Not really sure. I could be a ghost, but I guess it doesn’t really matter. I’m here, you’re here; we can chat.”_

_Castiel nods his head, mildly surprised by her confidence. “Um, I’m not the most fun person to talk to.”_

_“You’re the first person who’s talked to me aside from Dean in… I’ve lost count.” The woman shrugs, her pale dress flowing with the movement._

_“You speak to Dean?”_

_“Of course I do, he’s my son.”_

_Small flashes of memories that are not his own dance in Castiel’s mind’s eye._

The laughter of children, the smell of fire and the cold clutch of the sea. The warm hands of a spouse. A mother’s love and the heartache of loss. Sorrow, hope, love, torment; all of them wrapped and indiscernible, but there and very real.

_“I was never happy with the path my family was thrown into when I passed on. John was desperate, he wasn’t thinking when he struck up the deal, didn’t think twice about getting the boys involved.”_

A distraught man roughly shaking hands with a man in a dark suit, his smile twisted and cruel as John signs on the dotted line with a quill.

_“All I could do was watch through the veil as my children were taken into the water. I thought they had drowned, but a matter of years later, I saw them again, walking these shores. Both soulless and enslaved.”_

Dean and Sam walking along the sand, eyes white and dead as they try and fail to mourn their mother. There’s nothing in them, not a single ounce of life or humanity. No light.

_“Sirens are made, Castiel. Unfortunate circumstance makes humans the perfect vessels, easier to get under their skin—to lure them. It took them a while, all three of them, to finally get their bearings. My boys fought tooth and nail, went against instinct and bloodlust to cling to those last remnants of humanity.”_

_Castiel closes his eyes, willing himself to watch no more._

_“My boys are cursed,” she says, but she doesn’t look all that upset about it. “They make the best of it in this modern age, and I am particularly surprised at Dean.” She pulls away to walk around the lighthouse, looking at the scribbles along the ceiling._

_“Why would you say that?”_

_“He’s yet to take any soul for his own.”_

_The statement throws him off for entirely different reasons. “Only Dean?”_

_“Sam had a little slip up once, but it’s been all taken care of. Dean insists that his brother has become a ‘vegetable eater’.”_

_Sam sitting in a restaurant eating a salad is the first thing that comes to mind, but he’s sure that’s not what she means. In fact, he’s scared to know what she does mean. “Sirens eat souls.”_

_“Mary,” she says out of the blue, snapping her fingers when the thought finally strikes her. “My name is Mary. And yes, one hundred souls to achieve mortality.”_

_“They eat to become human again?” The question is tentative, afraid he might offend her if he corrected her word usage._

_“Not human, but mortal. Sirens live forever, and if it is anything like Dean says, well, I wouldn’t blame them stealing those souls.” Mary hitches up the hem of her dress and goes down the spiral stairs. Castiel follows. “I don’t know much about life under the sea, but if it is anything like life above it…”_

_A light flickers on, and Castiel is amazed by what he sees._

_The first floor of the lighthouse resembles a bedroom with a small bed, a dresser, two mirrors and a trunk overflowing with clothing. The furniture looks new, regardless of the fact that its style is a few centuries old. There’s even a cameo, a quill and a bottle of ink over a desk._

_“You’re dreaming,” Mary says, ruffling Castiel’s hair with a laugh. “Come morning, odds are none of this will be here. Take a seat, will you?”_

_Castiel sits on the wooden chair by the desk. “I don’t get it. Wouldn’t that mean that Dean wants to stay immortal? Why would any of them want souls if it means eventual death?”_

_“Tell me something, Castiel. Have you ever woken up one morning feeling the world is just waiting to destroy you? And at the end of the day, once you lay your head on the pillow, have you ever wished it would have? Life without end isn’t life, and it certainly isn’t as glamorous as those moving pictures Dean loves say it is.” Mary sits on the bed, prim and proper, but with an ease that speaks of comfort and maternal instinct._

_“Dean carries my death as a burden, as well as his brother’s turning and his father’s descent into madness. He’s tried countless ways to right these things that are so painfully out of his reach, and each failure weighs down on him like a sentence.” Wringing her hands together, Mary sighs and looks to the floor. “Every evening I see my son suffer, begging for an end that, if completely honest, I know he can achieve. Song or not, Dean is charming and well-versed in the art of wooing the heart. But year after year, I sit here and watch him make his choice. It matters not how much time goes by, Dean will forever believe that one hundred lives are worth more than his.”_

_Castiel looks away when her waterlogged eyes turn to him, slightly unseeing, and unnerving once he reminds himself that this woman is long dead. “It’s very unfortunate.”_

_“Oh, come now. There must be something else you wish to say,” Mary says._

_“Ma’am, if this is some sort of intervention, I’m afraid that there isn’t much I can do,” Castiel says, struggling to keep his defensiveness in check. “I understand what you mean, it is inescapably clear, but the truth of the matter is that I was lied to. Dean withheld the truth of what he really is. And modesty aside, some of the things that happened cannot be accounted for as fully consensual.”_

_“You’re angry.”_

_“Yes, I am.”_

_“You’re free,” Mary says, getting to her feet and opening the door. “You can now walk away and never look back. This island, these past few months will be nothing but another appalling memory. Just one boat ride and never again will you have to deal with anyone in this dreaded place.” Her pale cheeks turn rosy as she smiles and ducks her head. It’s the same expression Dean wears whenever he’s being bashful about something silly._

_“What do you say, Castiel? Your life before Nires Island must have been far more pleasant when you didn’t have inhuman creatures living in your own backyard.”_

_“This is the card you want to play?” Castiel says, straightening his shoulders as he makes for the door, having decided to walk out into the freezing night. But he stops on the first step, hand stiff on the handle._

_Mary’s hand is on his shoulder, kind and reassuring. “I’ve never been one for games, but I do believe in stating the obvious. Sometimes, bouncing what is already known back towards the person will help them see things more clearly.”_

_“If you say so.”_

_“Well?” Mary nudges his shoulder. “Off you go.”_

_Castiel doesn’t move._

_He feels light on his feet, relaxed and able to breathe, unlike anything he’s felt since the moment he stepped foot on his new home. The world was flipped around when Dean appeared, brilliant eyes and sharp jaw, his smile bright and charming. Castiel’s mind is clear, absent of the fuzziness that’s constantly kept him on edge for weeks._

_He’s free, but his fingers still long to skim Dean’s neck, tangle in the short hair at the nape of it._

_There is nothing but Castiel Novak at present, no alien essence forcing its way into the deepest recesses of his mind, body, or soul. It’s a sharp and bitter realization, just as terrifying as the knowledge of Dean being something_ Other, _but it’s real, and there isn’t much he can do about it now._

_It burns him to the bone, scorches his soul; but Castiel yearns for Dean more than he likes to admit._

_Swallowing around the knot in his throat, Castiel quietly shuts the door, leaving the night to brew on the other side._

_“Is your son in the habit of picking up strays?” Castiel mumbles, taking a deep breath and turning to Mary with a muted look._

_“What Dean lacks in soul is compensated by the size of his heart. He is a good man, if a little stubborn, but he loves truly and wholeheartedly. Call it a mother’s instinct, but I think he’s rather enamored with you. You’re all he ever talks about, nowadays.”_

_“How often does that happen?” Castiel mutters petulantly, making Mary laugh._

_“I’d say it’s the first time in… two centuries. Give or take a decade or two.”_

_Castiel gawks._

_“The shock will wear off in a while, don’t you worry your pretty little head about that,” Mary says with a chuckle._

_“I—I don’t know what to do,” Castiel says, sudden and desperate, eyes wide as she pushes him back up the staircase. “About any of this. Dean and… and just—”_

_“What do you want me to say, young man? I can’t make your decisions for you, no sir. As Dean’s mother, I’m here to put in a good and honest word for him. I must admit, it’s adorable to see him swoon over his dashing storyteller.”_

_Mary giggles when they arrive to the top floor again, the broken light doing its rounds and giving sailors safe guidance. The place is just as they left it, complete with Castiel’s mug still knocked over on the floor._

_Mary spins Castiel around, the smell of smoke trailing behind the wake of her hair as she does so. Before he can pull away, Mary presses a cold kiss to his cheek._

_The sound of an opening door makes her look towards the stairwell, then back at him with a pearly-white grin._

_“Go back to sleep, Castiel. When you wake, you’ll see the world in a new light. And hopefully, you’ll discover that your reason for waking up in the mornings has been there for quite some time.”_

_Nodding absently, Castiel drops onto the floor and doesn’t watch her go. He pulls the sheets around himself, soft and warm, turns onto his side and shuts his eyes._

_The serene sound of the waves and a stray seagull makes him sigh, and before he can give the encounter much thought, he’s drifting into a deeper sleep before being welcomed into the world of the waking._

•••

Missouri and Balthazar are given the task of covering Castiel’s house with the same sigils Dean put up on the lighthouse’s walls and ceiling. They are strategically placed, so as to not disrupt the décor, nor scare any of Castiel’s family. It takes them a full day, with Castiel taking several breaks whenever the two days of counterattacking the poison take their toll.

He’s recovered from the incident with help from Missouri’s magical tea concoctions, giving him an extra kick of what he assumes is caffeine to get his blood pumping faster. It gives him a headache, but he’d rather deal with pounding temples than the torturous pain in his stomach and chest.

Balthazar places vinyl records back on their shelves, hiding three runes in the process, when a disgruntled Sam walks through the front door, bearing three pizza pies.

Castiel scoots farther into the couch, alarmed at having yet another non-human simply waltz into his home. True, he knows Sam, somewhat, and the younger of the Winchester brothers has never done him wrong. The kid is a walking ray of sunshine.

“Hey, guys,” Sam greets, looking over from the kitchen counter before deeming it safe to put the boxes down. “Sorry I’m late. Ellen asked if I could bring these as a ‘get well soon’ present.” He shoots Castiel a smile that’s rewarded with an incredulous blink. 

“Are you okay?” Sam asks, eyebrows pushed together with concern.

“He’s fine,” Missouri says, wiping her hands clean on a washcloth. “I just forgot to mention you were stopping by to help.”

Sam lifts his hand in surrender. “I come in peace and bearing gifts. Promise I won’t be here long, just going to check if there’s anything that might slip up.” He points a finger to one of the circles drawn on a cabinet door. “Then I’ll be on my way. Dad’s throwing a fit, gotta make sure he doesn’t exile Dean or something stupid along those lines.”

Missouri tuts, one hand on her hip as the other pats Sam’s arm. “Tell your father to stop by my shop one of these days. He and I need to have a serious chat.”

“Will do, ma’am,” Sam says, before opening one of the boxes. “Cas, pepperoni or chicken?”

Castiel frowns from his place on the couch, shaking his head as he brings up his legs. “None, thank you,” he calls, quite politely, but at Missouri’s glare he corrects himself. “Chicken would be fine.”

Balthazar snorts and Sam laughs. Castiel even finds it in him to chuckle when the pizzas are taken from the counter and into the living room, and Lenore jumps onto Sam’s lap like she’s right at home, immediately starting to paw at his jeans.

“I know it’s probably not the best moment to say this, but the bloodsucker gave Dean a call last night,” Sam says, catching a can of soda that Balthazar throws his way.

Castiel crosses his legs and places a pillow over his lap to keep from burning himself. Grease is soaking the wax paper, and he’d much rather stain the furniture than take any more injuries. “The bloodsucker?”

“Benny,” Missouri clarifies, dragging a seat in from the kitchen. “He and Sam have an inimical relationship.”

Castiel had hoped the peeking fang was just the moon playing games on him that night on the docks.

Sam scoffs. “Some of his buddies saw your wraith in Redtail, just outside the tree line. They tried going after it but it was gone the moment they went into the forest. Couldn’t trace it or find its source.”

Castiel shivers when his skin prickles with goosebumps, losing whatever bit of an appetite he had. “Is it far from here?”

“It’s a few miles up the ridge. Problem is, the only thing separating Redtail and your backyard is a stream about the width of your car, making your place easily accessible. Dean thinks that whatever’s behind this is coming from the forest.”

“But it would take weeks to search every nook and cranny,” Missouri says, sipping lemonade from a bendy straw. “Nires isn’t big, and neither is Redtail, but that place is littered with traps and charms. It’s filled with landmines of the preternatural kind.”

“Comforting,” Balthazar mutters from his place at Castiel’s feet, stealing a piece of pepperoni from an untouched slice.

“What happened to the ‘No Creature Goes Dark Side’ policy? You seemed pretty sure about this.” Castiel picks at the cheese on his slice, before looking up at Missouri and waiting for an answer.

“There hasn’t been an incident on Nires in decades,” Sam says, sounding far older than his young features might indicate.

Castiel is struck with a thought, left wondering if Sam and Dean ever aged after their turning, or if they were already these ages the moment John signed them off. The softness on Sam’s face is something natural, something Castiel assumes has been there since he was a child, not schooled or practiced. He may be big, but the boyish haircut and dimples make it hard for Castiel to see him as anything lethal or evil.

“This isn’t your fault,” Missouri says.

Castiel looks up. “What do you mean?”

“You think you’ve brought this upon our lives the moment you moved in. Well, I’m saying it now, it’s not your fault.”

Sam nods his head. “She’s right. The sheriff is calling a meeting for anyone willing to help. He’s pulling together a watch, keeping everyone safe.”

Feeling ashamed, Castiel doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes. Missouri is partially right, although the thought hadn’t occurred to him yet. The specter wasn’t harming anyone besides him, but how long before it got bored and started preying on someone else? Now, people were putting themselves in harm’s way because of him, risking their peace of mind and a good night’s sleep for the sake of keeping that thing at bay.

“This isn’t right,” Castiel says, forsaking the cheese and playing with a piece of chicken instead.

“Tough crap. You’re a part of our community whether you like it or not,” Sam says, talking like the kid who’s just watched an action film for the first time and now wants to play the hero. “This is home, Cas. You have the right to feel safe and welcome here, and we’re going to see to that.”

Without looking up, but feeling grateful, Castiel murmurs, “Thank you, Sam.”

Smiling, Missouri stands up and drags the chair back into the kitchen. “In light of this, I’m going to double check the attic and make sure nothing can get in. Balthazar,” she says, wiggling her fingers for him to take.

Patting Castiel’s leg once, Balthazar follows her, their arms looped as they make their way up the stairs occupied with light banter.

The silence that follows feels awkward, Sam busying himself with organizing the remaining slices of pizza into a single pie. Six slices left. Castiel briefly considers saving them for Dean, but then he remembers their not-so-nice parting.

“Why are you really here?” Castiel asks, picking at a loose thread on the pillow. “Dean and Missouri did just fine on the lighthouse.”

Sam shrugs, rubs his hands together as if fighting off the cold, despite the heater being on. “I’m way better than Dean when it comes to charms and sigils. I study them in my spare time. And Missouri’s just finding out. I don’t doubt her expertise, but she’s not above a mistake or two.”

Castiel nods his head, and he’s sure his neck will cramp up by the end of the week due to how much he’s been doing so lately. “That makes sense.”

“Yeah.” There’s another uncomfortable silence before Sam groans and squeezes the bridge of his nose. “Okay, Dean wanted me to check up on you. He’s worried, Cas, and I mean… constantly-paces-around kind of worried. I didn’t get the full details, but I think everyone kind of gets what happened, it’s not that hard to figure out.”

“Word spreads fast.”

“Small island,” Sam says with a half-smile. “It’s kinda boring here for being overrun by creepy-crawlies gone veggie.”

Castiel snorts, scratches at Lenore’s fluffy ears when she stretches out beside his thigh. “He shouldn’t worry, especially not now that the place has been secured. I’ll be fine.”

“You’ve been saying you’re fine since the moment the boat brought you and your car to shore. Look, I don’t know you, I’m not even going to pretend that I do, but I’ve heard enough. I’m sick and tired of hearing my dad and Dean fight over this every damn day. When Dean first laid his eyes on you in the Roadhouse, he was lost. Take some damn responsibility for it.”

“Sam, I…” He has nothing. Castiel has nothing to say, and still doesn’t know what to do about it all. “I never asked for any of this.”

“But it happened. Shit happens, Castiel. You deal with it. I’m not asking you to forgive him or to make merry with him. All I want is for you to talk to him. Set things straight. If this thing you two had is over and done, then say it, put it out there, but don’t leave him pining for something he can’t have.” Huffing at the end, Sam closes the box and nudges it away. “Walk past it, man.”

The resoluteness of Sam’s words is set in his brow, the firm press of his lips and the large doe-eyes that are most likely hiding secrets. But every single word rings true.

“I don’t want it to end,” Castiel says, hushed enough that Sam has to lean forward to catch them.

“It doesn’t have to.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” Castiel mumbles, hands forming fists on the pillow on his lap. “How long until I’m too much of an irresistible dish to pass up, Sam? What happens when someone or something better comes along? I know.” Castiel bites back the bitterness that threatens to choke him. 

Taking a deep breath, Castiel looks up at the ceiling and says, “I _know_ what it is to go cold turkey and you have no idea how _agonizing_ it is. Dean is just another form of pill, easier and prettier to swallow. He’s no different than anything I’ve ever taken before.” He takes a deep breath, now turning to stare Sam head-on. “How long before it’s too much? Before it kills me?”

Sam lets his eyes wander to the cat, keeps quiet for long minutes as he debates his next words. “Can you think of a better way to die?”

Castiel’s eyes widen, knuckles turning white as his grip on the pillow tightens.

“Sam, honey, would you mind giving us a hand up here?” Missouri calls from the stairs, drawing their attention away from the conversation. “I need a tall and handsome young man to add a few touches to one more rune above the attic window.”

Sam gives Castiel a small smile, both compassionate and knowing. “Be right up.”

Castiel watches him go, humming a rock song he’s heard Dean sing before.

The sun’s glare through the living room window makes him look away, turning instead to the couch where he and Dean shared their darkest of memories, and formed brand new ones. Tentative kisses and old Beatles songs, the brush of fingers and silent promises exchanged between total strangers.

Siren song or not, Castiel’s heart glows at the thought of them.

“You too, Castiel,” barks Missouri, sending him jumping to his feet.

•••

Day fades into a rainy night, company having long gone, leaving Castiel to wander around his home in serene contemplation.

He thinks about writing, then cringes at the thought that it’s been weeks since he’s done any. Looking at the magnetized calendar on his refrigerator, he also sees that he’s missed two scheduled appointments with his editor and publisher.

 _Atermoiements._ It’s a word he’s heard Balthazar use before, but only now does he learn what it truly means.

Coffee brewing, Castiel warms the milk and sets fresh food for Lenore beside the counter. He pats her stomach and she purrs, turning away from Castiel’s touch and sitting down to enjoy fish and chicken bites.

Castiel thinks about Dean.

Sam and Mary’s words float and swirl in his mind, random words being highlighted whenever he thinks up a counterargument. Every troubled thought and _if_ and _but_ are hushed when Castiel accepts that Dean chose to set him free, and gave him a way out. Castiel knows a thing or two about selfishness, but Dean destroyed every cause for resentment the moment he chose to set up the sigils, to let Castiel take the path he truly wanted, and not what some pheromone-induced high dictated.

At the end of the day, it will be what Castiel decides that will lay down their path to follow. A rebellious part of him wishes to go against Dean, to punish him for his actions, but in doing so, Castiel is aware that he will only be destroying himself. Sulky, Emily once called him, and he smiles sadly at the memory. Castiel has always seen himself as a fairly okay person, but the reintroduction to company has only made him see how ugly his personality truly is.

Picking up his cell phone, Castiel’s fingertip slides across the glass screen in search of Dean’s contact information. He settles on sending a text, but once he’s facing the blinking cursor on the screen, he cancels it.

Castiel’s status as an acclaimed author is pure trash. When it comes down to what matters, the words always fail him. Making them look pretty against a white page isn’t of much importance when he can’t even form them. Instead, Castiel serves himself a mug of coffee, grabs three sugar cookies Balthazar was kind enough to bring as a non-verbal apology, and heads up to his bedroom.

The television is on, and the local ten o'clock news is rambling on about political campaigns and the cruel winter that’s set to arrive in just a few weeks. Castiel ignores it as he sets his things down, triple checks the salt lines, before finally sitting down on the bed. He casts the cell phone another glance, but dips his cookie in his coffee and forgets it for another twenty minutes.

The programming changes to _Starship Troopers_ , cheesy war propaganda flashing across the screen as alien spiders knife through South American soldiers who look like his childhood neighbors back in North Carolina. The film never fails to make him smile, however.

An hour into the movie, Castiel picks up his phone again. This time, he does type a message, only to delete it. He repeats the same process four more times until he settles on something brief and to the point.

_Meet me at Placid Hill. Tomorrow at seven pm._

It’s as far from intimate as he can get, being surrounded by the entire island in a mess of lights, music and family time. Baby steps, he tells himself, it’s crowded and therefore it’s safer.

The reply comes so quickly he fears the message didn’t go through, but he’s left shaking his head with a slow grin spreading across his face.

_Don’t forget to wear white. Tradition. :)_

Castiel doesn’t reply; he doesn’t have to.

Sinking into the mattress, he brings up the bed sheets and yawns.

By the time Rico is upgraded to Lieutenant, Castiel is fast asleep.


	8. The Hope

The history behind the Autumn Festival is as follows:

The kindhearted and munificent General Hawthorne, pleased with this new, rich land he had purchased, decided to celebrate it, five weeks after he had settled in. It was mid-April and the flowers were in full bloom, the sky was a clear blue and the sea was as calm and serene like in every sailor’s most treasured dream.

But then summer came, hot and bright, and the cool water offered a relief. The lobsters crawled onto the island’s shore, the shrimp jumped into Hawthorne’s boat, and the clams were enough in quantity to make him stumble as he walked the sandy shores of the hollow.

When the season changed into hues of orange and brown, the fresh breeze chilling but comfortable, the pines still green and the ground littered with cones, Hawthorne finally decided on a name.

Autumn Hollow, because it didn’t matter how stunningly the seasons painted the scenic shore, autumn would always be the most beautiful. The sheer splendor was enough to call him to the porch of his quaint mansion, where he could sit and stare endlessly, until the cruel clutch of winter blanketed everything with its lifeless, sparkling white.

He wrote prose and letters, painted canvases, but it was never enough. Those mere trifles were his, made solely for his eyes, but he wanted to share it with the world. He wanted everyone to see the magic that rested within every pine needle and leaf, every grain of sand and every blade of grass.

And so Hawthorne decided, on the very last day of November, to celebrate it yet again. Different from the family dinner he had hosted in April, he sent out invitations to the dozen families that had made Nires Island their home.

Upon seeing the live oak, the only of its kind Hawthorne had ever seen, he claimed the flat hilltop it was perched on for the grand gathering. Placid Hill, he named it, because it was well and truly gentle in its solemn and peaceful ambience.

Every year since 1789, the Autumn Festival is celebrated in honor of the founder of Nires Island, and the majesty that resides upon it.

•••

“That’s the official story, anyways. Tourists are suckers for the pretty stories,” Benny says with a chuckle, turning his beat-up clunker onto the main road.

The world is dark though the cracked windshield, but there isn’t a cloud in sight, allowing the full moon to cast its light along the cracks and crevices of sleeping buildings. The roads are empty and the night is quiet, and both Castiel and Benny are late for the party.

Castiel struggles with his seatbelt as it insists on digging itself into the soft side of his throat. “I suppose the real reason behind the festival isn’t a cute bedtime story.”

“Hawthorne was the cruelest sonuvabitch to have ever breathed. Had three dozen slaves living in a shed in Redtail. There were more, but he took a liking to using them as game. Left them wounded then let the animals take care of the rest.”

Grimacing, Castiel wishes he could have walked to Placid Hill. He doesn’t mind Benny’s company, the man being friendly and tolerable for a vampire, but Castiel could do without the bloody history lesson right now. That doesn’t stop him from prying, however. “How did the festival come to be, then?”

“It was a bloodbath, and Placid Hill was center stage.” They arrive at a stoplight just as it turns yellow. Benny guns it. “You see, the natives weren’t too happy with the way Hawthorne was treating other people, so they helped the slaves rebel against him. Two failed attempts, so he called backup. It was redcoats versus us spooky folk. You don’t need me to tell you who won.”

The scenarios flourish in Castiel’s head, something along the lines of _The Patriot_ meets _Resident Evil_ with a hint of vampires and other creatures of the night. He’d be damned if he couldn’t write an entire series off of that. “What happened next?”

“Natives and freed slaves banded together, built their own village for both the human and the not-human. The Battle of Placid Hill was immortalized in Nires, and thus the festival came to be.”

“Were you a part of it?” Castiel ventures, looking over at the other man.

Benny doesn’t answer, but the smirk is all it takes to assure Castiel that he was.

“How about Dean?”

“Naw, Dean came along some fifty-or-so years after. The mansion had been burnt down, and his kinfolk were fond of the place so they built another house. If I’m not mistaken, it’s the same foundation yours currently sits on.” Benny turns left at an intersection, and Castiel can already see the lights a few miles up ahead. “Hope the age difference don’t squick you.”

Castiel snorts. “Because that’s what worries me the most.”

“Dean’s a good kid. Bit of a troublemaker, can’t keep his mouth shut, hell of an appetite, but he means well. Give him a chance.”

“Sorry if I don’t feel all too comfortable around the supernatural,” Castiel says, sounding sulky to his own ears.

“No need to be so bleak about us, little brother. Some of us are as cute and cuddly as we look. Myself included.”

Trying not to smile, Castiel asks instead, “Why aren’t you wearing white?”

“Come again?”

“Dean said it was tradition to wear white.”

Benny raises his eyebrows, fixes the beret on his head. “Only humans wear white.”

“Oh.” Castiel stares at him out the corner of his eye. There’s a slight curl of tension on Benny’s shoulders, like he’s trying not to make a rude remark. “Why does it make you uncomfortable?”

Chuckling, Benny shakes his head. “Humans in white are known as Saints—Innocents. Pure folk. No, it isn’t as holy as you might think, it’s more of a game.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Depending on the color Dean is wearing, you’ll know of his intention.”

“Intention?”

Benny is grinning so wide Castiel can only describe it as wolfish. “You’ll find out when we get there.”

Castiel huffs but says no more.

A minute later, they pull into the impromptu parking lot below Placid Hill.

Castiel unbuckles himself and leans closer to the dash, peering out at the spectacle of lights and the flurry of people, all of them dancing and laughing, children running along the hill’s side with rolls of cotton candy and candy apples in hand. The tree is illuminated by fairy lights, and hanging lanterns Castiel didn’t see a few days ago.

He helps Benny open the back of the truck, pulling out an old wooden dinghy and half a dozen coolers. It’s a short trek up to the table, but the added weight of ice and a few dozen or so beer bottles makes it more difficult. Two men Castiel doesn’t know show up to help.

Among the chaos of tables and people, Castiel gets to pour the ice into the boat, and is unable to bite back the smile at the ingenuity of it. It’s the kind of thing Anna would probably like for a wedding, rustic and clever, and he idly makes a note of it.

On the makeshift stage, a band is playing loud and fast, the banjo and fiddles weaving a tune that even Castiel, with his two left feet, would enjoy dancing to. He’s both surprised and delighted when he spots Dean at the side of the stage, strumming a guitar with an ease that is almost beautiful in itself. Foot tapping, singing along, grinning. Castiel is entranced, but is ripped away when someone jumps on his back.

“I thought you weren’t going to show,” Anna nearly yells beside his ear, pressing a kiss to her brother’s cheek. “This place is gorgeous!”

“You could say I was persuaded.” He spins her around in a hug, notices the yellow sundress that contrasts with her red hair. Castiel wonders exactly how she’s handling the cold dressed so lightly. “ _You_ look gorgeous, Anna.”

She beams. “You’re not too shabby yourself. What’s the occasion?”

“You mean, besides an annual festival that makes the papers the morning after?”

“He has a date,” someone says. It takes Castiel a moment to decipher that the blur of bright colors held before his eyes is actually a cupcake, and that it’s attached to Balthazar’s hand. “Isn’t that right, Cassie?”

Castiel’s face grows hot, and he’s thankful for the dim lighting that hides the shade of pink he knows is there. “Um—”

“Is it Dean?” Anna quickly asks, clinging to Castiel’s arm. “Have you two finally gone official, or have you been official all this time?”

“I’m afraid it’s rather complicated, darling Anna. But if my senses are spot on, which they usually are, I think these two dimwits are finally getting a move on,” Balthazar explains, snaking a hand around her waist as she laughs, looking slightly shocked by the revelation.

“What’d I miss? Sup, bro.” 

Castiel stammers at the sight of Gabriel popping his head between Anna’s and Balthazar’s. 

“Michael’s stick was so far up his ass he couldn’t make it down the stairs, so I played the mighty hero and agreed to chaperone for Wonder Girl,” Gabriel says.

Anna looks away, her hand pushing Gabriel’s face away. “Take a breath mint.” Gabriel exhales loudly on Anna’s face and runs off before she can hit him. “Ugh, you pig!” she calls out, curling her hands into fists.

“Are they here, too?” Castiel asks, and he knows Anna gets who he means, and he’s relieved when she shakes her head, turning to face him.

“Dad doesn’t approve of this ‘den of iniquity’. His words. Mom’s too busy dealing with Michael and his plans for world domination. Less pressure, right?”

Castiel slowly releases a breath, calming his nerves.

He glares at Balthazar when the cupcake is pressed against Castiel’s nose, leaving a trail of icing on the tip of it. Castiel takes the cake and swats Balthazar away. Chuckling, Anna wipes his nose clean.

Something tugs at the bottom of Castiel’s stomach, warmth that has nothing to do with the proximity of the lights or the fire pit, but it’s physical and pleasant all the same. Castiel shuts his eyes and fights the brief moment of disorientation, and even before a hand lands on the dip of his back, he already knows whose it is.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean’s smile is affectionate, and Castiel has to look away or risk getting caught kissing him senseless.

“Hey, Cas.”

The hand on Castiel’s back slides to the side, rests on his hip and squeezes. It’s so deliciously possessive that Castiel has trouble standing straight, knees suddenly shaking and mouth dry. If this thing was strong before, now it’s twice as bad.

“You okay?” Dean asks, immediately taking his hand away and shoving it into his pant pockets. No one notices it, but Castiel feels the overwhelming sensations recede, leaving him with a hollow sense in his stomach. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s fine. You just caught me off guard,” he lies, avoiding meeting his sister’s gaze. The words taste bitter on his tongue.

“I’ll wear a bell next time,” Dean replies, and he’s all smiles and eye crinkles.

The tension between them becomes thick and solid, Castiel’s cutting words still ringing in his own head. He's left to shuffle his feet awkwardly, unsure of what to say, or how to break the ice.

He takes a moment to study Dean's clothing, to see if he can somehow decipher the color codes the locals have set.

Dean is wearing beige dress pants, a white button-down shirt, and a sleeveless, pale gray sweater. Strange, considering that he rarely wears anything besides jeans, t-shirts and the occasional leather jacket, but he looks exquisitely handsome and roguish in his current attire. Castiel finds that Dean being barefoot makes his heart flutter.

Castiel's mother has been telling him for years that staring has always been one of his biggest faults, especially since he thinks he’s being discreet about it. Castiel thinks he might now understand what she means.

“I take it you’re aware of the game,” Balthazar says, switching his gaze from Castiel to Dean, then back again. “Are you?”

Dean chuckles, scratches the back of his neck when Castiel narrows his eyes. 

“I’ve been told, but I’m not familiar with the symbolism. I know what white means,” Castiel says, cautiously.

“Well we can’t just tell him straight off,” says Benny, appearing out of the blue with a bottle of beer, which he hands over to Dean. “What’ll be the fun in that, huh?”

Balthazar pouts, pulls Anna away with him as they head for the sea of people who are dancing at the center of the flat peak. Castiel watches them go, and smiles when Anna kicks off her heels and dives right in, red hair trailing behind her as she twirls in tune with the lively music.

Castiel turns to Dean, who is looking at him like he holds the world’s darkest secrets in his coat pocket. Castiel grins when Benny pats them both on the back and takes his leave, leaving them both by themselves.

Castiel lifts his hand and takes hold of Dean’s wrist, and leads them to the outskirts of the hill. The decline isn’t as steep as he expected, and the grass is still damp from the afternoon’s showers, but Castiel sits down anyway. Dean drops as well, lays back and props his head on his hands.

Castiel looks down at him. The lights barely reach them, so the foot of the hill is swallowed in complete darkness, but swaying lanterns occasionally reflect on Dean’s golden eyes.

Licking his lips, Castiel pushes for an explanation. “Are you going to tell me?”

Dean shakes his head and presses a kiss to Castiel’s cheek. “Later. First, you tell me why the hell you hitched a ride with _Benny_. I thought you couldn’t stand him.”

“My car wouldn’t start.”

“And you didn’t think about calling your mechanic?” 

About calling _me_ , is what he means, and Castiel swats him on the head. “We had a date. I didn’t think it’d be appropriate to call you down when you were probably getting ready, or already here.”

“I would have stopped by either way,” Dean argues, looking annoyed before turning his sights skyward.

“Is Sam here?” Castiel steers clear from fallout and into safer territory. He isn’t about to ruin a perfectly good night with senseless arguments.

“He’s on patrol duty with the sheriff, guarding the area’s perimeters.”

Castiel’s eyebrows shoot up. “What for?”

“UFOs that might take advantage of everyone’s inebriated state and snatch them up for probing.”

There’s sarcasm, but in a place like Nires, Castiel muses that he cannot be too sure. Either that, or Dean is most likely making fun of his writing material. Not that he writes about alien abductions or anything of the sort.

“I’m joking, Cas.”

“Oh.”

Dean’s sigh is dramatic. “I know he told you about that thing, along with the measures we’re taking to ensure everyone’s safety.”

“He told me it’s been spotted near the forest, but other than that, I’m still in the dark.” Castiel eyes the darkness just a few feet away and inches closer to Dean. “Is there something I should know, or should be doing?”

“You got the amulet I gave you?”

“Yes.”

“Keep it on you at all times. Check the salt lines regularly, you know, the usual. We’re handling the rest.” Hands find each other on the damp grass, fingers entwining in a promise to protect. “Nothing’s gonna get to you, Cas. Not you or anyone else on this island.”

Castiel’s thumb strokes the back of Dean’s hand, relishing the softness of the skin there. He nods, taking Dean’s words to heart. “About those colors…”

Dean chuckles and sits up, leans in so that the tip of his nose is just inches away from Castiel’s. “I’ll tell you. But only if you earn it.”

Eyes narrowing, Castiel shoves him back down with a teasing glint in his eye. “I am not a child, Mr. Winchester.”

At the menacing, albeit playful, look on Dean’s face, Castiel quickly gets to his feet. 

“Never said you were.” Dean follows suit, moving quickly and grabbing Castiel by the waist when he tries to make a run for it. “C’mere, you.”

Castiel can’t stop laughing when Dean nuzzles his neck, stubble tickling skin and dragging when it meets his own. A hard kiss is pressed to his jaw line, causing a full body shiver that has Castiel leaning back into Dean’s embrace. “Dean.”

“Can I kiss you?”

The question is whispered against Castiel’s ear. What it lacks in heat is substituted with a shyness that Castiel finds almost uncharacteristic of Dean, but he understands where Dean is coming from. Castiel is well under the influence of his presence, the contact only fueling the pheromones that makes arousal stir in his gut, but Dean is giving him the choice whether to proceed or stop right there.

Castiel hesitantly nods his head, and before he can even lick his lips, Dean’s mouth is sealed over his. Light and chaste before Dean pulls away, their breaths soft when they linger.

“Gray means modesty and maturity.”

“Neither of which you are,” Castiel says, eyes straying to Dean’s mouth.

Dean grins. “You’re missing the bigger picture.”

Hand in hand, Dean drags Castiel up the hill and into the party again.

There is a booth where people pick up pumpkins and guess their weight. If they get it right, the pumpkin is theirs for the taking. Another booth has people smashing them to smithereens with sledgehammers. There’s food and pastries, drinks of all kinds, and even local jewelry carved out of wood being sold in homemade stands.

Strings of fairy lights go from kiosk to kiosk, to the tents and the stage, and they all break off to meet at the live oak, wrapping around the ancient trunk. Castiel compares it to a macro photograph of a spider web just after a spring shower, every bit as surreal and beautiful.

Dean wins him a sea otter with missing stitches and buttons for eyes during an arm wrestling match.

It’s by all means a normal date, with plenty of food and beer, and the occasional inappropriate touch claimed to be accidental.

“We’ve got magicians,” Dean says, sitting up on a barrel to eat a corn dog Ellen shoved his way at the last food stand.

“I don’t think an age-old sorcerer would count as a magician, Dean.” Castiel dips a sea-salt seasoned fry in Dean’s dressing, and hums appreciatively at the tanginess.

“Dick.” Dean nudges Castiel’s thigh with his foot. “He does this awesome card trick that’ll just blow your mind, I swear.”

“You said the same thing about the palm reader.”

“Not my fault Pamela got distracted by your ass.”

“No need for jealousy, Dean.”

Dean’s smile is dazzling. “Fine. You can make it up to me with a dance.”

“No,” Castiel says, lifting up a finger to stop any argument that may follow. “You may be able to get anything out of me, but no dancing. I’ve bruised enough toes for one lifetime.”

“C’mon, Cas. ‘Tis a festival. How can you go to a festival and not dance? It’s like going through high school without getting laid.”

Castiel refrains from spilling the dressing over Dean’s impeccably clean pants. “I don’t think we shared similar experiences during our high school years, if that’s the case. Mine involved blank canvases and being shoved into lockers twice a day. And I still was considered a part of the _popular_ crowd.” The thought that follows is loud, striking him like a lightning bolt would. “Either that, or the popularity thing was meant to be a joke.” It wouldn’t be the first time he’d missed a punchline.

A drunken Gabriel stumbles by, singing along to the band’s latest tune. Castiel rolls his eyes, and doesn’t miss the concerned look on Dean’s face when he turns his attention back to him.

With a half-smile in place, Castiel shrugs. “What doesn’t kill you.”

“I never went to high school,” Dean blurts out, digging the tip of his shoe into the dirt. He grins uneasily at Castiel’s deadpan. “What? I’m serious. I was put through a year of homeschooling before... you know, _that_ happened.”

For the dozenth time, Castiel is floored by the realization that Dean’s very being is something abnormal. Song or not, the thought that the young man sitting beside him is nearly three centuries old still disturbs him. He doesn’t say it aloud, and he doesn’t need to, judging by the way Dean looks away with a slump to his shoulders.

Hesitant, Castiel brushes his fingers along Dean’s arm. “Where did you say the magician’s tent was at?”

Dean looks at him steadily, eyes reflecting the lights above head and making his expression unreadable. He takes Castiel’s hand and smoothly traces his long fingers with a kind of reverence that leaves Castiel breathless. “I was thinking your place.”

Confused, Castiel furrows his brow. “The magician isn’t at my house.”

“No, Cas.” Dean groans, running a hand against his face. “I was thinking about going back to your house. You and me. You know, have some little alone time.”

Finally getting it, Castiel scratches the back of his neck. “Sex.”

“The crowd doesn’t need to know.”

“Sorry.”

Keeping his balance where he sits on the barrel, Dean pulls him forward, settling Castiel between his knees and shushing him with a simple kiss that quickly turns fervent. Hands paw at Castiel’s hips, slide up and down his back as Castiel is pulled closer to the heat of Dean’s chest. Castiel’s own hands are steady on his thighs, kneading, his thumb caressing the inner seam of Dean’s pants. Daringly, that same thumb prods Dean’s crotch, and Castiel stifles a triumphant chuckle when Dean’s jaw goes slack against his mouth.

Castiel debates whether or not they’ll get caught if he ventures into giving Dean a handjob right where they are. He would have to be quick and subtle, and Dean would have to be quiet. One look at those green eyes tells him that Dean is already onto Castiel’s plans.

“You kinky son of a bitch.”

Castiel offers him a lopsided smile before he closes in, gasps when Dean’s knees grip his sides like a vice. Dean’s arms are around him, slouched slightly forward so to cage their indiscretion from view. One quick kiss later and Castiel is fumbling with the button of Dean’s pants.

He wonders, much like how Dean draws attention like a magnet, if he can repel it. Something like a defense mechanism that’ll make him unnoticeable in a crowd. It would be useful, and if left to Castiel’s imagination, he’d surely give the ability to one of his characters.

A nibble to his neck makes Castiel focus on the task at hand.

The crowd on this part of the hill is thin, but there’s still people roaming around with food and drinks and prizes. No one pays them any attention, hiding in a darkened area behind two kiosks, and Castiel is now one-hundred-percent sure that Dean has been shielding him when an agitated Sam is the one who interrupts.

“You two have no decency whatsoever.” Sam grimaces and looks away when he notices that the situation is far worse than he probably expected. “Dean, you are disgusting.”

Castiel jerks away from Dean, and nearly stumbles over his own feet as his face burns hot in embarrassment. He’s mildly horrified by how casual Dean looks while zipping up his pants. “Perfectly natural, Sammy. I’d shake your hand but…”

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” Sam says, turning away when someone else walks up behind him and starts to speak.

“Dean, I get that you and your friend are on a roll here, but we like to keep the festival at PG-13. You should probably take your third base elsewhere,” says a man that vaguely resembles a mouse. “Or else risk a few ladies getting nosebleeds.” The man tips his Stetson, the fringes of his jacket sleeves swaying comically.

Dean jumps down from the barrel and fixes his clothes. “Cas, this is Garth.”

“Sheriff Fitzgerald,” the man corrects, but the stern look turns friendly, and he shrugs when he leans in to shake Castiel’s hand. Dean and Castiel notice a second too late and both recoil. “But you can call me Garth.”

Garth wipes his hand on Dean’s arm.

Castiel feels awkward at being caught in such a compromising situation, but no one seems bothered by it, with the exception of Sam who looks about ready to gag. He stands off to the side, watches Dean and Garth exchange quick words.

“Is the perimeter up?” Dean asks, inching closer to Castiel.

“Why else do you think we’d be here? Place is a-okay and secure enough for everyone to do their thing without worrying about nasty ghouls and haunts. The evil kind, anyway,” says Garth, chin up and beaming at his report. The man looks less than a sheriff and more like a kid in his cowboy getup.

“Awesome,” Dean says with a smile, but it’s uneasy, and Castiel leans closer when Dean’s hands reaches for his wrist. “I’ll take the three a.m. patrol. First, I gotta turn Cas in.”

“I can take care of myself, Dean.”

“Broken record, Cas.”

Garth barks out a laugh, points at the both of them then crosses his fingers in the shape of an X. “Totally married.”

“Shut up,” Dean mumbles, avoiding Castiel’s glare.

“Rufus and Gordon are taking the shift, and then Christian and that other kid are going to cycle tomorrow.” Sam drifts into Castiel’s line of sight, hands on his hips and pointedly ignoring Castiel and his brother holding hands somewhat awkwardly. “You can take the night off.”

Oblivious as Castiel may be, he quickly catches Sam’s undertone.

“Even better,” Dean says, nodding his head and holding Sam’s gaze for a quick moment. “If anything, you give me a call.”

“Got it. Now if you’ll excuse me, Jess is waiting.” Sam gives Castiel a half smile and a mock salute before disappearing into the crowd.

They’re left standing there in the company of an eccentric sheriff who, in the absence of immediate conversation, polishes his badge with the sleeve of his shirt. “I take it you’re the new guy up at Autumn Hollow.”

“Yes, I’m the reason why this monster is here in the first place,” Castiel says, infuriated by the entire situation. Ashamed and guilty, he isn’t feeling up to being polite, despite the sheriff’s easy attitude.

Dean squeezes his wrist, probably about to argue, but Garth is already patting Castiel’s shoulder. “Don’t sweat it, man. We’ve got everything under control. A little excitement is always good for the ticker.”

Castiel raises an eyebrow, not surprised by the brightness his tone is met with, but rather, feeling uncomfortable for snapping at the man when he was only being nice. “Thanks.”

“Garth has a thing for always looking on the bright side,” Dean says, sounding like he’s repeated those very words countless times before.

“And?” Garth opens his arms, making Dean groan and Castiel blink in bewilderment.

Sighing, Dean shrugs. “And he’s also a hugger.” He’s quick to hold up his hands however, stopping the movement immediately. “But we’re going to postpone these hugs for another time or else risk this situation getting far more awkward than it already is.”

“Oh, right!” Garth gives them both a thumbs up that makes Castiel think he could die from humiliation. “But I’m gonna have to ask you two to take this elsewhere. No hard feelings—or, you know, the _hard_ feelings are the root of the problem here.”

“Garth, please, can you not?” Dean says hotly, rolling his eyes when the man starts to laugh. “Come on, Cas. Let’s blow this joint.”

Without giving it a second thought, Castiel waves his goodbye at Garth before being dragged away by the elbow. “He seems like a colorful character. What is he?”

“Human,” Dean says, slowing down his pace when they make it to the denser crowd. “Guy killed the tooth fairy. He grows on you.”

Castiel figures he probably heard wrong due to the loud music, so doesn’t answer. Instead he focuses on trying not to trip over the people who are still dancing and walking about, most of them too drunk to move in a straight line. “Where are we going?”

“My car,” Dean says, casting Castiel a look over the shoulder and winking at him. “Night’s young, might as well make the most of it.”

•••

Castiel doesn’t know the first thing about classic cars, only that they’re nice looking and will drain your pocket dry when it comes to gas mileage. With its shiny black coat and dangerous curves, Dean’s Chevrolet Impala doesn’t disappoint. It’s the type of car one sees on the cover of men’s magazines, with voluptuous women in skimpy bikinis spread over it. The thought is ridiculous, but Castiel is willing to bet that the car is an extension of Dean’s beguiling song.

But of all the aspects the Impala has to offer, Castiel’s favorite is the chill of the metal as it seeps through the thin material of his shirt, making him shiver when it comes in contact with the warmth of his back. Arousal cuts through him, making his cock twitch when Dean steps closer, takes his mouth and plunges his tongue in without restraint. 

They kiss messily, desperate hands touching what they can reach, tugging at clothing, pulling and pushing their crotches together.

Castiel fumbles for the door handle that’s biting into his lower back, moans loudly when Dean accidentally bucks, but he stammers when Dean pushes himself away. “Dean? What is it?”

“Get in the car. We can’t do this here.”

“The tint is dark enough.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Dean—”

“Please, Cas. I’ll take care of you once we get back to your house, okay?” The promise makes Castiel go weak at the knees. He nods his head jerkily, and blesses Dean’s soul when he opens the door for him.

Fingers intentionally brush against the bulge in Castiel’s pants when Dean buckles him up, before stealing another kiss that has Dean palming himself before he pulls away. “God, I’m about to burst,” he murmurs against Castiel’s mouth, and drinks in the soft curse he mutters in return.

Castiel swats him away before he can cop another feel, sits back and grins lazily at Dean’s disgruntled state. “It was your idea to get home.”

Taking in a deep breath, Dean straightens up and shuts the door. 

Castiel is still grinning by the time Dean gets behind the wheel. 

“You seem awfully ecstatic about having a hard on,” Dean says, turning over the engine and pulling out of the parking too fast to be considered safe. “Is that a kinky thing?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Castiel worries his lower lip, the car’s vibration sending wave after wave of pleasure that makes him melt against the leather upholstery. 

With his head resting on its side, he watches Dean press a hand to his crotch, slowly massaging as his drives. The thought of Dean masturbating sends wanton chills down Castiel’s spine, making his restraint waver.

“Second time I’ve seen you look pleased about walking around with a boner; I’m starting to think it’s a thing,” Dean murmurs, voice low and hitching at the last word when he squeezes.

Castiel’s eyes flutter shut when Dean turns on the radio, starts humming along to a song he’s heard at least once before. 

He touches the inside of his thighs when Dean starts to sings along, and maybe he doesn’t sync with the artist that’s playing, maybe his pitch is wrong and is out of key, but it’s the most amazing thing Castiel has ever heard.

The drive seemed long on the way to Placid Hill, and maybe it’s the distraction, but it feels like time has flown out the window. Before they know it, Castiel and Dean are fumbling with their seatbelts and storming out of the car.

The night is far colder by the seaside, making Castiel’s teeth clatter as he jogs across his yard with Dean on his heels. He gasps when he’s tugged away from the porch, and in the darkness, he staggers into Dean’s chest before they make their way to the lighthouse.

“Why the lighthouse?” The words are muffled when Castiel’s back collides with the structure rather roughly, moans when Dean presses his thigh between his legs.

“Because I’ve got a surprise for you.” Dean’s breath is hot against Castiel’s neck.

“I like surprises.”

Dean chuckles and single-handedly wrenches the heavy door open. “After you, hot stuff.”

Light floods out into the night, heat warming Castiel’s side when he pulls away to take a look inside.

The first floor is still in shambles, nothing like the dream Mary showed him a matter of days ago. But the light is coming from the spiral staircase, and it flickers and sways, making the shadows move. 

Curiosity spiked, Castiel steps inside.

He coughs, bent over and gripping at his stomach. Wicked twists that pull at his gut leave him breathless, the sharp pain slicing and electrifying down to his core.

“Whoa, easy there,” Dean says, laying a hand on Castiel’s back. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.” He waits out the initial waves of nausea and the pounding headache that follows, taking in deep breaths while leaning against Dean. He’s still unable to get used to the change between being within the aura Dean unwillingly creates, to the normal, and vice versa.

There’s a tense moment where Dean keeps his touch chaste, mouth pressed into a thin line as he waits out the side effects. He’s nervous, Castiel decides, unsure of what will happen now that the spell is once again lifted. 

Slowly, Castiel straightens himself out.

He fixes his shirt, works out the wrinkles and notices that Dean is wearing boots. He wonders when he had the chance to put them on. “I’m fine,” he says again, stepping closer and tangling his fingers in Dean’s hair, pressing a kiss to the side of his mouth. “Shall we?”

Dean’s face shifts into something beautiful. The smile that reaches his eyes, making them crinkle at their edges, the gleam in them—it’s unlike anything Castiel has ever seen. Without the song’s influence, Dean’s imperfections are stunning, and all Castiel wishes to do is kiss every single one of them.

Without another word, Dean leads the way.

Dozens of candles decorate the wooden floor, the banisters, and the top of the decommissioned lantern, casting the room in a soft yellow glow. Against the wall farthest from the staircase is what Castiel would refer to as a nest. Duvets, sheets and pillows are all neatly set out in the shape of a makeshift bed. A toiletry bag rests on top of it. 

All fifteen panes of glass are shut, keeping the heat trapped inside. There are curtains hanging in front of each one, and some are tied to let in the moonlight.

Dean has turned the once-vacant and abandoned area into an improvised bedroom; a little niche just for the two of them.

Speechless, Castiel expresses his gratitude with a deep and languid kiss. “How long have you been planning this?”

Dean presses their noses together, chuckles when Castiel wraps his arms around his waist. “Since before you found out. I wanted to make the occasion special but… that got out of hand real quick.”

“You should have told me sooner, Dean,” Castiel says, chastising, his voice feeling husky and low in his throat.

“You’re right, I should have.”

Dean’s hand slides down Castiel’s side, and then up, dragging the soft fabric of his shirt along. The cool part of his palm meets hot skin, and Castiel hisses, brings himself closer to Dean and spreads kisses along his neck and collarbone.

Despite the desperate slide of tongues and smack of lips, they go slow, hands roaming and hips rolling, clothed cocks bumping occasionally.

Sex is good, it has always been good, even if Castiel’s previous partners would be categorized as ‘lousy lays’. He doesn’t want porn star sessions; he’s always been happy with the ‘classics’ and the ‘vanilla’, as Balthazar would say. Complicated positions or drawn out foreplay—none of that ever mattered to him. It was always the same: kissing, missionary, sleep. For him, sex is a basic human need that needed to be satisfied.

But Dean—sensual, scorching, and delectable Dean—triggers something in Castiel that makes him long to throw away the stupid rule book. Sexual decency be damned, Castiel wants to climb on his lap, craves for Dean to roughen him up, bend him over, bite, lick, and mark him. It’s carnal instinct so sublime, Castiel is overwhelmed by it, feels his cock jerk in his pants.

“Dean…”

Dean pops the button on Castiel’s pants. “Off.”

Castiel steps away, automatically strips himself down to his boxers. There’s nothing sexy about it, no striptease or seductive movements. He does, however, linger before removing his underwear. Castiel bites his bottom lip, humming appreciatively at the tent in his boxers. It’s strange, oddly erotic, as he loves being aroused.

“It really is a thing for you,” Dean whispers, walking up behind Castiel, chest to back. His hands wander Castiel’s chest, pinching his nipples before tickling their way down his sides. “You like being horny? Is that it, Cas?” Open palms dip along Castiel’s hipbones, dragging the hem of the boxers with them. “Let me see that cock of yours.”

Moaning, Castiel bucks up when the hem is pushed down enough for him to spring free. The boxers are left to pool around his ankles. His cock bobs, thick and heavy, as Dean lets his hands caress the top of his thighs.

It may not be the first time they’ve been exposed to each other, but it doesn’t dampen the thrill that they’re actually touching. Skin on skin, no clothing, spell, or consent issues between them.

Dean steps away from the heat, putting on a show as he undresses, focused on touching himself as Castiel watches intently. His fingers linger over the buttons of his sweater, smoothly sliding them out before facing away from Castiel, and letting the soft cotton slide off his arms and onto the floor.

Castiel worries his bottom lip when Dean’s hips begin to gyrate, the shirt soon following the same path as the sweater, fluttering to the floor.

Warm light casts shadows along the curves and edges of Dean’s body, but from the darkness Castiel notices something more. A near-invisible splatter of freckles grace his skin, like stars after midnight. Castiel see that there are dark shapes embedded just under the surface of Dean's body—tattooed ink, dark blue. Intricate circles and other geometrical patterns, not unlike the runes set along the ceiling of Castiel's house, curl and trail along Dean’s abdomen, entangling him like vines. The figures twist along his back and up his spine, fading until they disappear into a protruding knob of his vertebra.

Castiel is close to asking how recent those are, but the thought flees when Dean pulls off his pants and boxers in the same motion.

There’s a brief moment in which the two of them stand there and appraise the other’s body, and the thought that, finally, they are able to touch and taste to their heart’s content.

Dean breaks first, and reaches for the bag resting on the sheets. Castiel watches as he pulls out a small bottle of lubricant, and wrings his hands anxiously. Lustful haze or not, it’s still been six years since Castiel has been properly intimate with someone, and the fact that Dean is a man is another factor that renders him unbalanced.

A gentle, calloused hand caresses Castiel’s cheek and neck, moves along from shoulder to arm, before ending its journey at his hip. The soothing gesture makes Castiel shiver with nervous anticipation as he leans into the touch.

“I’ve got you. I won’t do anything you don’t want; you just have to tell me. Whatever feels comfortable for you, okay?” Dean whispers against Castiel’s mouth, seals the promise in the form of a light kiss. “You’re in control here, Cas.”

Relief washes over him, and he nods. “Could you please shut the curtains?”

After squeezing his elbow, Dean gets to it. 

It feels safe.

“Better?” Dean asks, bringing Castiel into his arms and kissing him soundly. “Nothing’s going to get to you, not while I’m here.”

“Thank you,” Castiel murmurs, gently biting at Dean’s lower lip. He pulls away when he hears the distinct pop of the lube’s cap.

Castiel watches, focused and almost studious, as Dean pours an abundant amount of the clear gel onto his hand, puts the bottle on the banister, and rubs both palms together. 

Forehead to forehead, holding Castiel’s eyes, Dean reaches down to give Castiel’s cock a slippery tug that makes him gasp.

Slowly, Dean works his fingers from the base of Castiel’s cock, kneading and massaging with feather-light touches along the shaft, dragging velvety smooth skin as he goes. His thumb circles the tip, spreading clear beads of precome before wrapping his hand around Castiel’s length, and giving it a long, slow pump.

Castiel has to grip the banister behind him, or else risk collapsing when Dean sets a lazy pace, fingers and palm massaging his cock. His hands are hot, bold, and knowing in their movement.

Both their cocks bump together when Dean steps closer, overlapping their mouths for a kiss that’s loud and wet. Timidly, in the delirium of the kiss, Castiel brushes his fingers against the coarse hairs at the base of Dean’s dick. 

“Go ahead, Cas.”

Mindful not to squeeze too hard, Castiel gives him a tentative pull, leaving Dean to hiss out a “ _Fuck yes_.” 

He fumbles with his hold, clumsily tries to get a better grip in his current position. “Is that—?”

Chuckling, Dean helps him. “A little tighter… Yeah, yeah, that’s good right there.” Wrapping his hand over Castiel’s, Dean sets a decent rhythm. Luckily for him, Castiel is a very fast learner. “Oh—Jesus, fuck— _Cas!_ ” Dean has to physically wrench himself away, gasping for breath by being brought so close to coming in a matter of mere seconds.

Castiel smirks. “I’m sorry.”

“Like hell you are.” 

In a single fluid motion, Dean turns Castiel around and plasters himself along his back. “You might want to hang on,” Dean rasps, a knee nudging between Castiel’s thighs.

“ _…O-oh._ ” Castiel moans when Dean’s fingers drag between his legs, applying pressure to his scrotum before massaging his perineum. Instead of crying out, Castiel’s body can only jerk. 

Castiel reprimands himself for the noises he’s making, feels shame color his body, but just then, he hears Dean grunt and moan, long and loud.

Castiel tries not to tense up at the inability to see Dean in this position, but he forces ease to settle in him. He agreed to this because he trusts Dean, and what a better way to show his trust than this? With hands gripping the banister, Castiel spreads his legs a little more.

A kiss to his shoulder startles him, and Dean is suddenly there, nuzzling the junction between shoulder and neck. He nibbles lightly at the skin, kisses it better. “Remember what I said? Nothing you’re not comfortable with.”

He’s definitely not comfortable with having his back to Dean while standing in such a vulnerable position, but the absurdity of it sends ecstasy coursing through him, threatening to devour everything in its path. “I trust you,” Castiel whispers, and it’s half a truth, which is better than a complete lie.

Dean picks up on it, because he tones down on the rough handling. His touches return to the hesitant and tender strokes from before, peppered with kisses and loving whispers that will perhaps never be repeated come daylight. Castiel is grateful, glad that Dean is understanding and willing to cooperate, but he’s getting desperate. Lust trumps self-preservation just this once, and Castiel needs to get off.

“Dean, please, I need… just, um…”

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Dean answers, popping open the lube’s cap once more.

Castiel hisses when the cold contact reaches the skin just behind his balls, and he’s taken off guard by the peculiarity of it. Dean covers his cock, thighs, ass, and everything in between. Castiel doesn’t have time to ask what he’s about to do, when the tip of Dean’s cock slides between his thighs and nudges against Castiel’s balls before settling along the underside of his own cock.

Hands on both sides of Castiel’s thighs urge him to close his legs, and he does so, trapping Dean’s cock as he slowly moves.

Dean brings them close, bites at Castiel’s neck as he keeps a steady rhythm, shallow and deliberate, allowing his hands to touch and explore Castiel’s chest and hips. His breathing is labored, rough grunts bursting beside Castiel’s ear when he loses his footing and mistakenly ruts with abandon.

Castiel grips the iron banister until his knuckles are white. His chest hurts from keeping all his sound in, having no better outlet for his pleasure. He pushes back onto Dean in a quiet plea for more, and he can no longer hold back the whimper that escapes him when Dean’s large hand wraps around both their cocks.

It feels dangerous, but muddled senses turn those last shreds of unease into a sort of high that allows Castiel’s jaw to go slack from the pleasure. His body is thrumming, vibrating with so much bliss Castiel could burst out of his skin.

Sweat makes them slip and slide, the lubricant making obscene sounds whenever Dean goes faster, skin slapping skin. Dean moans, pants, groans and whispers Castiel’s name against the hollow of his neck, but Castiel loves it most when Dean growls _mine_ over and over again.

Castiel complains weakly when Dean pulls away, but he cries out when the head of Dean’s cock prods along his perineum and between his ass cheeks. He jerks, hand moving to grab the curtain when his cock snags against the puckered skin of his hole, making him brokenly call out Dean’s name. Castiel pushes back, desperate for relief when Dean takes his time sliding between his cheeks, purposefully pushing but not quite penetrating the ring of tight muscle.

_God_ , does Castiel like that.

Dean slots himself back between Castiel’s thighs. “Moan for me, Cas, please? I want to hear you. God, I want you to scream.” 

Castiel tightens his legs, and Dean’s pace stutters, turns erratic as he huffs and puffs. In retaliation, he takes hold of Castiel’s cock, jerking him fast and slick.

“Dean—I, D-Dean… oh— _oh, yes!_ ” He dives into speaking nonsense, each word hitched and half-formed as Dean works him with an expert hand.

Castiel distantly feels the curtain give, but his legs are too shaky and his mind too drowned in ecstasy to check.

Behind him, Dean is still thrusting, crude and loud, speaking such filth that makes Castiel wish he hadn’t come just yet. Dean stills, mutters Castiel’s name and a curse, and the hot wetness trickling down Castiel’s thighs is enough to let him know that Dean’s right there with him.

Soft lips kiss along Castiel’s shoulders and neck, soothing the numerous bites given in their delirium. Each one makes Castiel tremble with both exhaustion and pure unadulterated bliss.

Castiel gasps out a giggle, an honest to God _giggle_ , when he’s manhandled onto the makeshift bed of sheets and pillows. 

Pale limbs stretch out, toes curling with pleasure as Dean kisses his way up his stomach, chest, and lastly his lips. The world slows, the nightmares fading away, only to be replaced with the enrapturing green of Dean’s eyes and the worshipful caress of his lips against his skin.

“Hey,” Dean whispers, nuzzling Castiel’s neck with a laugh.

“Hello,” Castiel replies, tracing his fingers along the expanse of Dean’s arm.

Dean rests on his side, propped up on an elbow to properly look down at Castiel, and languidly touch whatever he can reach. “Was that okay?”

“I think we should take that up with the curtains.” The curtains are, miraculously, still in place, but the evidence of Castiel’s release stains them.

“We should probably wash those,” Dean says, idly looking at the wet spot on a particular curtain. 

He leans over Castiel’s body to reach for the discarded toiletry bag, from which he pulls out a small pack of moist wipes.

Castiel takes one. Only a shower will be able to get rid of the remnants of lube and come, but these will do for the time being. He’s too soft to move, and he doesn’t want to pull away from Dean’s body heat. He wipes away the heaviest of fluids before throwing the towelette in a random direction.

He settles back down, shuffles when Dean lays his head over his chest, stubble tickling him.

“That was exciting,” Castiel says, after a moment of staring at the circles on the ceiling. He yawns, huffs out a laugh when Dean’s nails begin to lightly scratch at the hairs beneath his navel.

“That was just a tutorial,” Dean explains, moving up to kiss Castiel’s mouth. “Start you out slow, get you ready for the big game.”

Castiel means to ask what the big game is, but the word game reminds him or something else. “You never told me about the rest of the colors.”

“Not exactly necessary after the clothing went.”

“I still want to know.”

Dean wrinkles his nose. “I think one meant sexuality and reverence, something about permission.”

“Permission to have sex?”

“More like permission to court, or something like that. You know, like those clubs where you dress like a traffic light? Red for ‘taken’, yellow for ‘it’s complicated’, and green for ‘all systems go’.”

Castiel laughs, a deep rumble that forms right down in his belly. “Some tradition.”

Dean manages to shrug in his position, licks playfully at the seam of Castiel’s lips. “Sue me for trying to be normal for once.”

“You don’t have to be ‘normal’, Dean,” Castiel, says cupping his cheek. “I’d rather have the you that burps after chugging beer and gets his mouth smeared with ketchup. You don’t have to get prettied up for me.”

“So the romantic den wasn’t necessary?”

“We’re keeping the den.”

Dean shakes his head and chuckles. “I guess I wanted to make a better impression than the soul-stealing monster you saw me as. Besides, I wanted to make asking you a bit more fun. Consent is sexy, after all.”

Castiel grabs the back of Dean’s neck and pulls him down until they’re forehead to forehead. “You’re not a soul-stealing monster, Dean. I overreacted. I didn’t mean any of those things...—at least, not anymore.”

“Don’t worry about it, Cas.”

“No, I need you to listen to me,” Castiel says, keeping his voice stern, but softly. “It’s been years since I’ve let anyone in, and the only reason you’re here is because you cheated. Greatly.” He grips Dean’s arm before he can pull away. “But I’m starting to think that it was absolutely necessary. God knows we wouldn’t be here if any of this hadn’t had happened. I refused to function under normal stimulants, I suppose it was time to kick it up a notch. Truth of the matter is that, when it mattered, you gave me the choice. That makes you more human than a lot of the people I’ve met.”

The rest is cut off when Dean pushes their mouths together, hurried and strong. Castiel can taste the desperation, the gentleness of Dean’s being. 

“Dammit, Cas. You have no right to say those things.”

“I need you,” Castiel confesses against Dean’s mouth, noses bumping. “I just do.”

Maybe it’s the afterglow talking, maybe it needs to be said. Castiel fears that these words may be his inevitable downfall, something for another tragedy to rip away from him. Or maybe he’s just signed off his soul to the Devil, but no one ever warned him that his kisses would be so sweet.

Castiel yawns, feeling sleep edging up around his vision. He wants to hold on for just a few more minutes, if only to watch Dean smiling down on him with the same care and devotion Castiel has dreamed of all his life.

“Goodnight, Cas. No nightmares tonight.”

And not a single wraith haunts his dreams.

•••

Going steady has been the thing furthest from Castiel’s mind since he published his first novel. He did search, fruitlessly, for a companion after Emily’s passing, but when it proved all for naught, he decided to marry his newfound career. Being romantically involved serves as nothing but a distraction, something that is proved the fifth time in row Castiel attempts to put words down in a document.

Once, as he sits slouched over his desk, a massage that is meant to relieve stress turns into a session of teasing and heavy petting, and Castiel’s very first received blowjob. It goes without saying that after that mind-blowing orgasm, Castiel no longer hesitates whenever Dean drops to his knees.

Afternoon showers are no longer taken alone, Dean claiming that it is for Castiel’s own safety. Neither minds the inevitable humping that takes place time after time, aided by the bottle of conditioner Castiel desperately needs to buy more of.

Four days later, when December’s first snowfall gives Castiel the chance to break out the hot chocolate and mistletoe, he’s caught kissing Dean beneath it when Gabriel barges in through the front door uninvited, with the rest of the Novaks in tow. 

No one mentions the impressive tonguing that was interrupted, but Anna doesn’t stop blushing and Michael doesn’t say a single word throughout the day. His mother won’t stop fussing over Dean, and his father gives them a tiny smile that is most likely an omen for the upcoming Mayan apocalypse.

Dean drives out for Chinese, and comes back with an extra Winchester, who hits it off with Gabriel with a shocking ease.

Hours pass well into the early afternoon when the Novaks finally bid Castiel farewell, for they’ll be leaving for the mainland come morning. It’s bittersweet, but Castiel is glad to have his peace once again. They promise to keep in contact, but he knows it’s a lie. Only Anna and Gabriel will ever call or email him.

When Sam leaves, Castiel is left standing beneath the open door, shivering in his thin sweater. He treasures his solitude, but the company was nice.

“Why the long face?” Dean walks up behind him and drapes a thick blanket over his shoulders. He wraps Castiel up, and brings him back against his chest. “Miss them already?”

Castiel nods, knocks his head against Dean’s. “It’s awfully quiet around these parts.”

“We can fix that right now,” Dean says, planting a wet kiss to Castiel’s ear that makes him flinch. “Come inside, would you? You’re gonna freeze your toes off.”

But neither of them move.

Despite how early it is, moonlight already reflects off the water’s surface, lighting up the shoreline where the waves solemnly lap. Snowfall builds on the branches of the two live oaks, their tips caressing the white ground beneath them. The Impala is parked off to the side, gathering a thin sheen of frost.

It’s beautiful, and Castiel understands why the Winchesters decided to rebuild three centuries ago.

“It gets too dark during the night,” Castiel says, bringing Dean’s hands under the blanket to warm them. “I should get lamp posts installed.”

“Hm.” Dean pulls away and grabs the nearest coat he can find. “You got a point. Can’t keep an eye out if it’s too dark.”

Castiel rolls his eyes, recognizing the bounce in Dean’s step. “What have you got in mind?” Draping the blanket over the kitchen counter, Castiel slips on his coat and follows Dean outside.

“Mrs. Green asked me to get rid of these the day after the festival, but I didn’t get around to it. And I think,” he opens the trunk with a flourish, “that these are exactly what we need.”

Peeking inside, Castiel sees six boxes filled with glass jars of different shapes and sizes. He recognizes them as the lanterns he had seen hanging from the live oak at Placid Hill. 

Castiel grins up at Dean, and grabs a box. “Have you got any candles?”

Dean snaps his fingers and opens the back door. “All we need are matches and something to tie them with. Yarn, or some wire, maybe.”

“I should have wire in the garage. Don’t you have a lighter?”

Castiel carries the boxes to the garden table he keeps outside, hears Dean yell, “Yahtzee!” from somewhere beside the car. “Found my lighter.”

From the garage, Castiel produces a flashlight, and fishing line from that one time he and his father were supposed to go fishing. He hopes it’s enough.

By the table, Dean is already lighting the candles in the shallower jars, and gives Castiel a thumbs up when he sees the line. “Awesome. Ready to make some DIY lanterns?”

Castiel laughs. “Do you have anything to cut this with?”

“I should have a wire cutter in the trunk,” Dean says, already making his way to the car, shaking snow off his hair.

Castiel watches him go with a fond look, feeling his heart skip and his stomach warm with affection. 

In the emptiness of Castiel’s house, Dean shines like a beacon that offers so many things he long ago considered lost. Dean, with his childish antics and forward attitude, makes Castiel feel more alive than he has in years. There’s peace and comfort, and overwhelming feelings of love that sets Castiel’s soul ablaze.

Music begins to drift in, though he barely notices.

A pair of red cutting pliers swipe in front of Castiel’s eyes, bringing him out of his reverie.

Dean smirks. “The only thing about Nires that annoys me is their obsession with folk music. Hell, to each their own, but, God, variety never killed anyone.”

He flexes his fingers, trying to get them warm. “Let’s get these done before the temperature drops even more. I’d like to keep my fingers for our extracurricular activities,” he announces, giving Castiel a wink.

He peers at Castiel for a moment, and all Castiel can think about is how much he _feels_ for Dean. Comfort, adoration, content; all of the things he hasn’t had the luxury to hold close to his heart in so long.

His thoughts are curtailed by Dean looking back questioningly. “What’s with the puppy-eyes?”

“It’s nothing. We should move the table closer to the tree,” Castiel says with a soft smile.

Dean stares at him before turning towards the tree. “Don’t you have a ladder?”

“Yes, but it’s pinned behind my car that still won’t start.” The words are accusing, but equally as playful. Castiel laughs when Dean gives him the finger.

“You know what? That’s perfectly fine. In fact, we’ll stop marathoning sex so that I can focus on your car’s engine, how’s that?”

They both lift the table from opposite ends and crab-walk over to the tree, making the jars still inside the boxes clink against each other.

“Sounds like a good idea,” Castiel taunts, sticking out his tongue.

“Have I told you just how pornographic your tongue is?”

“Only ten times a day.”

“And yet we’re still to shove it into certain places.” Dean steals a quick kiss before he jumps on the table. “Speaking of which, think we can squeeze in another round tonight?”

Castiel props himself up on the ledge of the table, and starts sliding candles through the narrow necks of the jars. “Dean, I need a respite.”

“Come on,” Dean whines, wiggling his hips. “I prepped and everything. You can have your way with me.”

“Dean,” Castiel warns.

Setting aside the jar, he grabs the fishing line and snips with more effort than necessary.

“Don’t be an old man. We only went once this morning.”

“Not all of us have inhuman stamina,” Castiel counters, evening out the line and tying it into a stable knot. Lastly, he lights the candle and passes the jar to Dean. “Plus, I’ve got work to do. It’s been weeks since I’ve written anything decent.”

“Still nothing on your novel, huh?” Standing on his toes, Dean ties the jar to the highest branch he can reach. “How’s that look?”

Like a single firefly trying to illuminate an entire field, Castiel thinks, but they still have six boxes to go. “Pretty.”

“Let’s get crackin’.”

Between moments spent listening to Dean complain about the music on the car’s radio, and the occasional minutes set aside for kissing, it takes them an hour. Once they're done, Castiel's eyes are stinging.

He remembers Christmas in San Francisco, the endless lights in so many vibrant colors. Remembers the smell of pine and the warm sea breeze.

Autumn Hollow paints such a different view, with whites and grays, the pale orange of dozens of candles flickering from the live oak and illuminating the snowy shores. Cold settles in his bones, but Dean’s hands warm his fingers where he holds them, kissing each fingertip as they face the wonderland they’ve created out of recycled material and damaged goods.

“Better?” Dean asks, nudging a kiss to Castiel’s jaw. “It’s probably going to be a bitch to change the candles when they melt.”

Shaking his head, Castiel squeezes his fingers. “It’s perfect.”

“Looks like one of those places they show in wedding magazines.”

“Reception venues.”

“Yeah, that,” Dean mumbles, holding Castiel close to his side as they drink in the mellow display.

The music blaring out of the Impala’s open doors changes to something slow, and rich, still folk, but with acoustic guitars and violins rather than fiddles and banjos. Castiel begins to sway to the whimsical tune, eyes shut, head resting on Dean’s shoulder. The chill is starting to become bothersome, and Castiel thinks it may be time to head inside.

“We never got to dance,” Dean says after a moment of quiet, beginning to move away.

“Oh, I don’t dance. I’ll only end up bruising your toes.” Castiel waves him off when determinedly Dean tries to pull him towards the center of the snow-covered lawn.

“Not even at your wedding?”

“Emily specifically asked me _not_ to ask her to dance,” Castiel says, chuckling lightly.

“Ouch, dick move.”

“She was wearing open-toed heels, she was being wise…” Castiel trails off, staring down at his shoes when the memory makes his chest ache.

Of course Emily loved him, there was no doubt in Castiel’s mind that she did. Maybe she didn’t demonstrate it the way most people do, the way Dean does, but that doesn’t change the fact that her eyes glistened with happiness when she said, ‘I do’. So much has happened since that day, so many wounds have been caused by sharp and cruel words and actions—but Castiel is honestly surprised to find that it all has healed over. All but one.

The chapter ended.

Dean has kissed those remaining scars away, but that single one remains. Castiel never got the chance to dance with Emily Rose, even at their own wedding. They didn't dance because she turned him down.

The moment of vulnerability allows Dean to lace their fingers together. 

“I did want to dance, but I didn’t want to hurt her,” Castiel mumbles, looking up to Dean with hopelessness churning in his gut.

Arms wrap around Castiel’s waist, pulling him close to Dean’s front. Briefly pressing their noses together, Dean whispers against his lips, “Well, I’m wearing steel-toed boots. Let’s give it a go, yeah?”

For years Castiel has run from the dark, and hidden from emotions that would only serve to expose him raw for vultures to peck at. Castiel has known true terror, fear that would rival the imagination of every adult and child who has faced the chasm of nightmares made real. He’s known sorrow that could render a person mad. Anger, misery, and emptiness; he’s faced them all.

But the burning fire that licks away inside his chest is something alien that wraps around his ribs and lungs. Scorching tendrils of green fire coil themselves around his heart and squeeze with such ferocious compassion that Castiel finds himself releasing a shuddering sob. _Love._ Love is ripping a hole right through Castiel.

Sighing deep, letting his body and mind settle after the barrage of feelings Dean’s words evoke, Castiel nods his head and lets himself be led.

With a hand on Castiel’s lower back, Dean begins to sway him from side to side, keeping to the slow rhythm of the song.

It’s not really dancing, more like moving along at their own private pace, just the two of them, enjoying the moment of winter sweetness and poured hearts. 

The rolling waves whisper along the shoreline, the sea breeze gently knocking the glass jars against each other, making the candles’ flames flicker and dance along.

“You’re not so bad, Cas.”

“We’re barely moving, Dean,” Castiel says, his voice thick with emotion. 

“Sure feels like we are.”

“I don’t mind,” Castiel says, and he really doesn’t. If left up to him, he’d rather stay here, swaying endlessly in Dean’s embrace, face buried against Dean’s neck.

Dean sings along to the song, just loud enough for Castiel to hear. 

“No need for extra effort.” There’s no venom in his voice, just amusement.

Dean’s hands tighten on Castiel’s back, bringing him closer still. “That’s not why I’m singing.” Orange flames flicker in the pools of Dean’s green eyes when he smiles, getting a soft laugh out of Castiel.

“Absolutely hopeless,” Castiel says.

“You’re one to talk.”

“Oh, shut up.”

Castiel breathes in the smell of sea and salt on Dean’s skin, snatches a quick taste as Dean spins them in place, still singing along. 

_Have I found you? Flightless bird…_

The song drifts to an end, the radio turning to static while it flurries, gathering on their heads and shoulders.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

Their feet continue to move at a slow pace, not once stepping on each other’s toes as they turn, dancing to the lulling rhythm of the waves that refuse to quieten.

“I think... I think I love you,” Castiel says, so low that he wonders if he even said the words out loud. But judging by the tightening of arms around his waist, he’s sure Dean heard him.

“Yeah.” Dean’s voice wavers. “Yeah. I kinda love you too, Cas.” A soft chuckle ruffles the hairs on Castiel’s neck. “I kinda love you a lot.”

Castiel can only smile, quiet and serene. Happy for the first time in a very long, long time.

“Cas?”

“Hm?”

“I can’t feel my fingers.”

Castiel laughs airily, shaking his head as he finally takes a step back. “We should turn in.”

“Yeah, uh, we—we totally should.” Dean’s Adam’s apple bobs, and Castiel leans in to lightly seal his lips to it. “You go ahead, I’m gonna lock up the car.”

“I’ll be in the bedroom,” Castiel says, voice dripping with a heat that makes Dean blink quickly.

“Is that a promise?”

Winking, Castiel heads towards the front door. “Maybe. Make sure to check the salt lines, will you? And blow out the candles.”

He hears Dean whoop behind him, and rolls his eyes.

Inside the house, Castiel sets out a bowl of fresh food and water for Lenore before heading for the upstairs bathroom, shedding his coat and clothing as he goes. He’s tired and slightly nauseous, but the transition between spells is becoming easier to deal with. Over the course of a few days, he’s learned the meaning of a handful of runes hidden across his house, along with the significance of Dean’s tattoos.

It seems that, while under Dean’s siren song, the tattoos are shielded from human eyes. Much like mermaids, sirens aren’t land dwellers, and therefore need special enchantments to breathe above water. The information sprouted a two-hour long conversation about Dean’s species, all of which Castiel drank in with wonder, astonishment, and a small amount of apprehension.

But regardless of Dean’s guarded looks and tight words, and the knowledge that sirens are malevolent creatures by nature, Castiel can’t hide the fact that he’s fallen in love with one.

Dean isn’t bound by the rules, nor does he abide by the laws of his race. While any other siren would have been picking Castiel’s soul off his bones by now, Dean swore to protect him, to cherish him, and—as Dean so crudely put it—take him in a very manly fashion over every surface available.

Castiel is washing his hair by the time he hears Dean close the front door, and isn’t at all surprised when the shower door is pulled open shortly after. A cocky Dean leans against the wall, and hums appreciatively at the view.

They don’t speak until they make it to the bedroom, Castiel dried but naked as he crosses the carpeted floor and locks the door behind him. Tonight is the night where they take it up a notch, as Dean has been saying for the past couple of days, and Castiel is expected to take the lead.

He hisses when Dean’s still-cold hands come in contact with his own shower-warmed skin.

Hushed words and promises are muttered against each other’s mouths while Dean sheds his clothes, letting them puddle at his feet before moving away to grab his toiletry bag.

A part of Castiel wants to go all out, tread on territory he’s never hoped to explore. He thirsts for Dean to cast off the shell of discretion, to bring him down to his very bones and nothing else, to leave him raw with lust and primal need. Castiel wants for Dean to rip off the veil of decency and propriety, and teach him how to dwell on the guilty pleasures of the kind of sex Dean brings into his life.

But another part of him wants to take it slow, to savor all the little moments they share between breaths. Among the extensive list of things Castiel has learned since the proverbial crossing of the line, the most important item is to simply enjoy himself. However majestic and dramatic he thought sex with Dean would be is just a load of nonsense. There are moments when obscene noises and awkward grabs make them giggle like children, and there are moments in which everything is too intense to break passionate eye contact.

Go with the flow, Dean said, and Castiel has taken it to heart. So much so, in fact, that, over the course of the day, Castiel took to calling their time in bed ‘playtime’. A game of exploration, both fun and educational.

When Dean joins him again, beautiful, naked, and hard, he cups Castiel’s cheeks and kisses him soundly.

Humming happily, Castiel moves away to shut the bedroom curtains and turn on the bedside lamps. “What was that you said about being prepped?”

“It’s been a long time, so I took the liberty of… you know.” Dean chuckles while he scratches at his belly, standing at the middle of the room to look Castiel over. Both of their skin is flushed pink. “Saved us some time.”

Castiel walks over and gives Dean’s cock a loose tug, fingers gently fondling the base. “Tell me exactly what you did, Dean. I want to know what you can take.” It’s amazing what three days of intense sex education has done to him.

Dean’s eyes glaze over at the command, rutting into the hand. “Cleaned and stretched; four full fingers for your pounding service.” Castiel’s other hand begins to fondle Dean’s balls, fingers pressing behind them and making him buck up. “H-How do you want me?”

“I’ll let you choose,” Castiel purrs against the corner of his mouth.

The reason behind it is a lot less sexy than Dean probably has in mind, but even after countless hours of exploring the limits of each other’s pleasures, Castiel still isn’t ready to take full rein. He hasn’t the slightest idea of which positions he and Dean can practice.

“I’m open to suggestions.”

Fearing that it may be too boring, Castiel casts the bed a sidelong glance when Dean busies himself with sucking bruises on his neck. There’s no other surface they can possibly choose. At least—not that Castiel is aware of.

“Get on the bed,” Dean says, pulling Castiel’s attention back to himself. He smiles down at him with patient adoration. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Letting his hand slide along Dean’s chest and stomach as he walks away, Castiel crawls onto the middle of the bed. He feels ridiculous while doing so, probably looks ridiculous, too, but Castiel doesn’t really care when he spots Dean behind him, standing by the foot of the bed, with a hand stroking and pulling at his cock.

Castiel settles his head on the pillows, and watches.

His own cock throbs where it rests against his thigh, twitching with interest whenever Dean’s head rolls back with a moan. Castiel bites his lip when Dean lets his free hand wander along his body, rolling his nipples and playing with his balls.

Setting a hand to lightly grab at the base of his cock, Dean quickly fists his tip, only stopping when his body visibly begins to shake. He lets out a slow breath, smirking when Castiel’s toes curl against the bed sheets in anticipation.

“Get the lube,” Dean says between breaths, fisting himself faster before stilling, a hand tight around his cock to stop himself from coming. Castiel scrambles for the toiletry bag, pulling out the small bottle of lubricant. “And a condom.”

Stilling his movements, Castiel looks up. “What are you doing?” he asks, seeing Dean climb onto bed and kneel beside his feet, taking the condom from his hands.

Dean smirks, leaning down to take the bottle of lube, and press a quick kiss to Castiel’s fingers. He coats Castiel’s cock with only enough lube to ease the slipping of the condom, and grins at the surprised gasps Castiel makes while deft fingers work along his shaft. “I’m gonna ride you ‘till morning, cowboy.”

Morning may come quicker than Dean expects, given how tired Castiel is, but he doesn’t complain for he is way too horny to do so.

Castiel remains perfectly still as Dean straddles his hips, his fingers kneading along Castiel’s flanks before smoothning his hands down his chest in one long stroke. The stuttering moan that escapes him is met with a lascivious chuckle from Dean, who quickly leans down to flick his tongue over Castiel’s hardened nipples.

Mouth, hands, and Dean’s full body—all of it covers him in slow movements meant to drive him insane with pleasure and lust. Each wet kiss is fueled with heat, with what Castiel wonders if it’s some sort of mating pheromone, because each one that is sucked into his skin makes him want to scream himself hoarse.

Reaching behind himself, Dean winces while masking a gasp with a chuckle. He bites his bottom lip, staying perfectly still for the exception of his arm, with its movements jerky and stilted until Dean relaxes enough to pull it away.

“Just making sure,” he mumbles, but before Castiel can ask what he means, his hand is once again wrapped around his cock.

Staring in rapt fascination, feeling the tip of his cock breach the circle of muscle around Dean’s hole, Castiel thinks he’s about to die. Heat and tightness, a delightful squeeze that slowly engulfs him and leaves Castiel’s mouth hanging open during Dean’s descent. His breath escapes him in the form of a long and quivering moan.

The pleasure that contorts Dean’s face is surreal. His eyebrows knit together in blissed concentration, lower lip bitten before springing free in favor of a pant. Dean’s shoulders tremble as his hands clutch at Castiel’s midriff for purchase, sinking into those last few inches of flesh with a satisfied sigh.

He stills, and Castiel grants him however much time he needs.

“How’s that feel?” Dean asks, and he sounds completely _wrecked_.

It takes the willpower of a god not to thrust up into that suffocating heat. “I should be asking you that,” Castiel answers, and is unable to hold back his grin. Trust Dean to worry about his partner’s pleasure rather his own.

“Perfect,” Dean rasps, slowly beginning to gyrate his hips. “God, it’s fucking perfect.”

Castiel’s hands caress their way up Dean’s thighs, and come to rest on his hips. He likes this position quite a lot, more so than the one they practiced in the lighthouse. From this perspective, Castiel can appreciate every inch of Dean’s gorgeous body, from the muscular thighs, to the soft midsection, to the erotically erect nipples.

“It’s good,” Castiel says, his thumbs rubbing soft circles on Dean’s skin. “It feels very good—” The last word is torn from his throat when Dean lifts himself a few inches, before sharply letting himself drop again.

There is a collective silence caused by a suspension of mutual disbelief, but this is soon interrupted when Dean clenches down on the intruding cock, and Castiel’s head snaps back with a cry.

On some level, Castiel thought that anal sex would be similar to vaginal sex. The basics are the same: tab A goes into slot B, but he couldn’t have been more wrong. This right here is unlike anything Castiel has ever experienced, and he is this close to coming undone.

Castiel holds his breath when Dean rises again, but the bastard doesn’t immediately come down. He holds himself there, smirking wickedly. “How good?” Dean teases, inching down bit by bit, but not sinking completely, before pulling back up again.

Mouth open, Castiel is unable to utter a word. Instead, he just nods.

Dean barks out a breathy laugh, adjusting his legs to gain better leverage for easier movement. “How about I tell you how I feel, huh?”

If Dean is going to talk him through this, there is no way Castiel will be able to hold on.

“Doesn’t matter how much you stretch, this shit’s always gonna burn. Doesn’t really hurt, but… it’s a… uh, a funky feeling,” Dean says, his voice pitched low and gruff as he seats himself.

Castiel digs his heels into the mattress when Dean gives three teasing little hops. His weight, suction and heat are a mixture threatening to drive Castiel mad.

“Never feels like it’s enough,” he continues, wrapping a hand around his cock to lazily stroke himself. “You just want to sit on everything, let it fill you up until you think you’re about to split open.” Dean squeezes again, his walls gripping Castiel’s cock like a vice. “Fuck, I love being stuffed…” he says, but his words are just a whisper, more for himself than for Castiel.

“D—Dean…”

“You got a really nice cock, Cas… You’re fucking packin’.”

Castiel moans then, all previous inhibitions shattered at the words. He bucks his hips, driving himself into Dean with enough force to jar him, and Dean answers with a wanton groan.

They dissolve into a game of give and take: Dean sinking down and Castiel rutting up, his heels digging into the mattress for leverage, plowing into the glorious suction.

The sounds of their bodies meeting is enough to make fire burn piercing and hot in Castiel’s gut. The squelch of too much lubricant, the slap of sweaty skin, Dean’s drawn-out moans… but it isn’t enough. There’s pleasure and ecstasy, but Dean is too far away.

When Castiel slows his frantic pace, Dean grunts in protest, moving for more. “Come on, man—don’t stop…”

Castiel pants for a moment, grounding himself pushing himself up into a sitting position. He puts his hands between Dean’s shoulders blades to hold him in place. “Dean…”

Dean’s eyes close at the whispered name, and he leans in to kiss Castiel with more tongue than lips.

“Dean,” Castiel tries again, placing a tender bite to Dean’s lips. “May we switch positions?”

Dean blinks down at him, his face lost somewhere between annoyance and amusement. “You gotta stop to ask?”

“Yes,” Castiel answers bluntly.

With a chuckle, Dean presses their sweat-damp foreheads together. “Whatever you want, baby. You’re in charge tonight.”

Sighing with content, Castiel swallows around the knot in his throat. He nods his head before saying, “On your back.”

Dean moves without question, pulling himself up and off with a groan.

The two of them move around each other, sheets sticking to their legs as they try to get comfortable, until Dean loses his balance. Clinging to Castiel, he falls back onto the mattress, groaning when Castiel’s elbow plows into his gut. And instead of apologizing, Castiel can only laugh.

“I think you punctured my spleen,” Dean wheezes out, but he hums out a soft chuckle when Castiel nuzzles the side of his face. “Apology accepted.”

Castiel smiles against Dean’s neck, takes in the smell of sea breeze and fresh snow and melts into the warmth his skin radiates. The stubble tickles his nose, feels wonderful as it catches on his lips, and Castiel wishes he could spend hours in this high. Pleasantly aroused, heavy and throbbing, wrapped around Dean’s scent.

Lightness manifests in Castiel’s heart, making him feel elated, euphoric— _vibrant_ with a kind of happiness he hasn’t been able to hold onto for years.

“Cas?”

“Yes, Dean?”

“Would you mind?” Dean says, pointedly knocking his knees apart.

Smiling down at him, Castiel moves to lie between Dean’s legs, thighs braced tightly against his sides.

Dean licks his lips as Castiel clumsily tries to push inside again, the squelch of lubricant loud and crude as he does so. He holds himself upright with his hands beside Dean’s head, and slowly fucks into the incredible heat until he’s all the way in, hips pressed flush against Dean’s ass.

Time slows to a stop, granting Castiel a moment of tranquil peace, here, enveloped by nothing but Dean. There’s sweat beading at the base of his spine, and his heart is beating fast, and it all those disjointed thoughts transmute into a single feeling Castiel can name in a heartbeat.

Dean’s eyes look black with only the bedside lamp illuminating them, and Castiel thinks they are beautiful, just like the plump, kiss-swollen lips, and the long lashes that rest over freckled cheeks every time Dean sighs.

Castiel leans down to press a kiss to each of Dean’s eyelids, before he starts to move.

It’s slow and steady at first, a rhythmic pound and drag of flesh that has Dean desperately clutching at Castiel’s back. The kisses are feverish and deep, tongue and teeth sucking at each other’s mouths.

Castiel fists the sheets as a coil of pure pleasure begins to tighten between his thighs, driving him faster, harder and deeper, grunting sharply with each powerful thrust. He can feel Dean’s hands scramble down his back and grip Castiel’s ass, urging him for more—and Castiel obliges.

“Fu—fuck, come on, Cas, you got it…” Dean rambles on, locking eyes with Castiel in their frenzy. “Fuck me, baby, that’s it—you’re… _shit_ … you’re doing fucking great—”

Refusing to look away or shut his eyes, Castiel goes faster, pace turning erratic while Dean’s words egg him on. And Castiel wins, he thinks, when he unintentionally changes the angle of his rutting, and Dean’s head snaps back against the pillow, his back coming clean off the bed as he howls something unintelligible.

Castiel watches on, rapt, when Dean’s features contort into something feral—teeth bared, eyes scrunched tight, even his nails are now digging into Castiel’s buttocks. But then his body goes slack, mouth open in a slick ‘o’, and Castiel understands why when he feels the wet drag of Dean’s cock against his belly.

Dean reached orgasm without being touched, and Castiel is the culprit. The knowledge lights a flame of pride in him, but instead of making a smug remark about it, Castiel’s thoughts are interrupted by a sharp slap to his left ass-cheek. The hot sting only serves to drive him faster, harder—desperate to become one single being with the beautiful man spent beneath him.

“Cas… Cas, come on. Come on, big boy—come fucking inside me.”

And that he does.

Castiel comes with a silent scream, hips pistoning on their own account as he rides out wave after wave of scorching pleasure, his entire body shaking with the sheer force of it.

He collapses shortly after, desperately heaving for air as he stays perfectly still atop Dean’s body, his limbs far too soft and shaky to entertain the thought of moving any time soon. He’s blissed out, and if such a thing could be possible, he’d be purring while Dean lazily combs his hair.

The hum of the heater tugs at Castiel’s consciousness, coaxing him towards the beginning of sleep, but Dean is moving again, unceremoniously shoving Castiel onto the mattress with little effort.

Castiel goes with a tired chuckle, gathering enough strength in his limbs to sit up and remove the condom, casting it hastily onto the floor. He’ll make sure to clean up first thing tomorrow morning, but now, all Castiel wants to do is relish the musky scent of their joining, along with the peaceful quiet.

Dean’s mouth smoothes over the nape of Castiel’s neck as they settle back down, Castiel’s back to Dean’s chest, with fingers laced together on top of the gray bed sheets. There is no need for words now, no need to bring closure for the night, because neither of them is going anywhere come morning.

Squeezing Dean’s fingers, burrowing into his body heat, Castiel sighs with bone-deep satisfaction. He tries not to fall asleep yet, wanting to linger in their little cocoon for a few more wonderful moments, but Dean’s puffs of breath against the curls of his neck are lulling him like a lullaby.

With a content smile, Castiel shuts his eyes, feeling safe in the arms of the man he’s fallen in love with.


	9. The Hollow

 

 

“Find what you love, and let it kill you.”  
\- _Charles Bukowski_

 

 

 

_One, two, three, four—_

_Go along and open the door._

Castiel’s eyes flutter open to find a brightly lit room.

He’s sure the curtains were shut before last night’s session, but the world currently looks fuzzy through the warped lens of his eyes. Colors are muted, and the stench of rot makes his stomach clench and churn. The room feels cold despite the covers draped over him, and worst of all, Castiel cannot move.

There are two things he notices at once, but first he glances to his right, where a slumbering Dean lays naked on top of the covers. His is mouth open and a bit of drool is dribbling from the corner of his mouth. Castiel would find it adorable, were it not for the pressing sensation that something is extremely wrong.

To his left, the bed dips, the smell of putrefaction becoming overwhelming enough to make him gag in his paralyzed state. He struggles to move anything, legs or arms, but nothing responds. A face comes into view, hovering over him with a gentle smile made out of blue lips like Death.

“Good morning, sweetheart.”

The feeling of sweet relief doesn’t come, as one would expect when seeing the face of their dead wife first thing in the morning instead of the stack of waffles and a cup of coffee he planned on.

Her blonde hair is done up in a loose bun, several stray strands hanging out and sticking to the ashen skin of her forehead. Her once hazel eyes are milky white and devoid of life, like a child’s marbles. There’s a fold of skin on her neck that moves whenever she speaks, the thread that had sewn her throat back together having come undone. Makeup is smeared messily on her face, as if she’s tried to hide the fact that she’s six years expired.

Castiel clenches his eyes shut and wishes it all away, hopes that it’s another one of those dreams where he screams but no noise comes out. But he finds that Emily Rose is still sitting on his bed, decaying hands on her lap.

Castiel tries to speak, but she shakes her head.

“No, no talking, Care Bear. You’re dreaming. The rules are different.” She turns her full body towards Dean, as if her head would fall off if she so much as turned her neck to the side. “He’s cute. Kind of reminds me of Roger.” Her grin is terrible, with gray gums and missing teeth. “I miss him. He’d make me feel like a woman.”

The lack of hurt Castiel feels is underwhelming. Shutting his eyes, he continues to wish the nightmare away as he fights to regain control of his limbs.

“I’m sorry, Care Bear. When you’re dead, it’s difficult to relate emotions. It’s liberating, in a way, maybe a little bit cruel and—I shouldn’t have said that. But it’s true.” There’s no malice or anger in her words, and it disturbs him all the more. The last memories he has of Emily are yelled swear words and deranged screaming.

“I came to visit you because I miss you, too. It’s lonely when you’ve got nowhere to go. You know what they say ‘bout the whole ‘follow the compass of your heart’,” she says, touching her chest. “Not much to do when it’s ripped out of you. Just as important as the soul, it is.”

Castiel eventually stops struggling after a few long minutes of silence. Emily is now looking at the stuffed otter on his bedside table, unmoving, like time itself has stopped around her.

At last she opens her mouth, and her lips fall open unevenly, gravity turning them into grotesque shapes as she speaks. “All you have to do is open the door, Cas. You’ll be able to manifest in the in-between. It doesn’t hurt, and it won’t cost you a thing. You and I can talk for a few minutes, catch up, and then you can go back to that man.”

Instinct tells Castiel to reject the offer, but he’s in no more control of himself the moment he sits up than he was while paralyzed.

The world around him is surreal, its muddled colors blurring at the edges as he looks around. His skin prickles, thousands of small jolts of electricity making him antsy where he sits on the bed. He tries to analyze the situation, tries conjuring up an explanation, but his mind goes no deeper than the here and now.

Emily is still there, smiling and dead.

Castiel is still dreaming.

There’s a horrifying moment as he watches Dean’s arms swipe through him, landing on his chest and snuggling closer. When he realizes it, Castiel panics, tries clawing his way back into his dormant body that lies peacefully on the bed underneath him.

“What the hell is going on?” He’s surprised to find that he has a voice.

“Ever heard of an out-of-body experience?”

“Put me back, right now. I didn’t agree to anything.”

Emily shakes her head and extends her hand to touch Castiel’s face, but lets it drop when he recoils. “I’m only here to talk, sweetie.”

“I don’t want to talk to you. You can’t talk to me, there’s nothing you can _possibly_ say to me after six years of being dead. The dead don’t talk.”

“That hurts.”

“You don’t feel anything.”

“True, but I came all this way, wasted all this energy to see you and Jeremy,” she says with a frown, absently toying with the frills of her satin blouse. “How is my baby? Shouldn’t you be taking him to school?”

Castiel fists the sheets, but feels anger when they slide through his fingers. In this state, he’s nothing but a ghost passing through. But then pain sears through him, white and blinding when he realizes that Emily died without knowing what happened at home that night. Even in this dreamlike state, it’s hard to swallow. “Jeremy’s… he’s fine. He’s all grown up.”

Dean is a godsend, a gift sent to help ease the pain of loss. He’s a shoulder to lean on, a mouth to kiss, someone to confide in and feel needed, desired and loved. But neither Dean, nor any other creature, living or not, will ever fill the void left behind by a son taken away. Dean might have been able to piece Castiel back together with some duct tape and whiskey, but a piece of him will always be missing.

Cold and scaly, Emily’s hand touches Castiel’s cheek. “Why are you sad?”

Castiel chokes out a laugh, eyes burning with the threat of tears. “I’m just, um, really happy to see you again,” he lies, trying both to appease her dreadful curiosity and his own inconsolable grief.

The words seem to satisfy her, as she nods and stands up from the bed. “It’s a beautiful morning. Why don’t we go out for a stroll?”

Warning bells go off in Castiel’s mind, making him hesitate. He looks up at her, the wife he once trusted—and realises he still trusts—even with the lingering knowledge of infidelity floating in the back of his thoughts. But the same cannot be said for the entity before him. The wrongness that emanates from her poisons the sunlight that tries to slip into the bedroom through the curtains, twisting the fabric of reality itself.

It’s just a dream, but Castiel knows now that dreams can hurt him, and even kill him, given the chance.

“Dad?”

Castiel looks up towards the disembodied voice, his transparent heart thumping hard enough to burst through his chest. Only Emily is there, but she’s facing the open door of his bedroom. “Sweetie? Are you awake?”

It’s just a dream, Castiel repeats to himself, terrified and anxious.

Emily gives him a quick smile before moving to the door, peeking out and giggling as she hides behind the door frame. “He hasn’t changed a bit!” She covers her mouth the same way she used to do whenever Jeremy would achieve something for his baby book.

Castiel is chasing her down the hallway before he can think better of it, driven by the giggles and laughter that echo from a loving past he’s dreamed of for so long. Down the stairs and past the living room, he stops when he reaches the front door.

The house is bathed in bright light, tiny particles of dust swirling as he stands there and looks around, searching for the fading voices. They seem to be coming from outside, but he can’t possibly go out dressed in only his old suit. Emily hates the thing, especially when the dark blue tie refuses to stay straight. It doesn’t matter, he decides, because he’s in a hurry, and he can’t leave his family waiting any longer.

Quickly, Castiel slips on the dressing shoes he left by the door just the night before, and shrugs on the old tattered trench coat his father gave him. It’s too big on him, but it’ll help against the morning cold.

He runs a hand through his hair to settle the rebellious bed-head spikes, but stops before he can reach the door knob.

Something is out of place, something important, but he can’t figure out what it is. The ghosts of his wife and child aside, there’s something else he isn’t paying attention to. He briefly thinks of Dean, but Castiel figures he’ll be back before the other man wakes up, so there’s no reason to worry about him. It’s only until after he’s outside, his front door wide open, that he notices it.

The salt line is broken.

Two opposing gravities pull at his incorporeal being, towards the house and into the woods. The solid warmth of his bed, or the essence of the dream world as elusive as mist.

He knows he has to run back and alert Dean that there’s been a breach in security, but Jeremy’s voice calls him from between the trees.

A brief glint of purple catches his eyes—Emily’s satin blouse reflecting the sun’s gray light.

The smell of fire catches him unawares, and in a brief moment of panic he looks up to find billows of smoke coming from the forest top. He hesitates, stuck in the middle of what he needs to do and what he wants to do, but unsure of which decision is which. The feeling that this is a trap doesn’t go ignored, but with Jeremy’s piercing screams, there isn’t much of a choice. Once was enough.

The smell of smoke grows thicker on the back of his tongue the deeper into the forest he goes, but even with his mind telling him that there’s no evidence of a fire, he keeps on walking.

Voices have now dissipated into nothingness, along with every other sound that nature brings. The birds, bugs, and even the creek that runs beside him have been muted, substituted with a ringing in his ears.

Castiel eventually slows to a stop when he no longer remembers what he’s chasing, or why he’s even here when he should be writing, dealing with his personal affairs, or better yet, fast asleep with Dean within the bed sheets. The thought comes and goes, like fading memories or dreams that are forgotten upon waking, and he struggles to hold on to them.

Dry leaves crunch beneath his shoes, the smell of wet dirt strong in his nose as he whips around on the spot, between towering pines and darkness that the sun can’t permeate.

He’s lost, and scared, but he’s also not alone.

The shadows that once slid along his feet back in California are here, along with the faceless figures that watched him from the neighbors’ fences. The silence is no longer something omnipresent and audible—but instead, it’s solid and real. It all pulses against the tree trunks and the rocks, causes ripples in the flowing water and shakes the leaves off the withering trees. The evil resonates.

Castiel is now aware that these things are no longer watching him, but hunting him.

The haze as he runs is a mess of orange and brown, but there’s a steady line of red that accompanies him as he dodges branches and fallen trunks. He doesn’t stop to check what it is, not once, because he already knows. Just like he knows what the dark figure that glides on par with him through the trees is.

The red yarn serves as a path, a trail of breadcrumbs leading him someplace he doesn’t know. Castiel tries to turn another way, to go back in the direction he came from, but he keeps running into the string time and time again. He’s trapped, and he fears that it isn’t a physical kind of trap.

Hanging from the branches are jars filled with things he can’t see, strings of shells and dolls made of hay. Faded smears of red and black make lines in every direction he turns, and it becomes hard to distinguish between paths as the forest grows darker, and invisible smoke clouds around, suffocating and choking.

Castiel finally skids to a stop, tripping over a rock and falling to his knees when he reaches a clearing. Dry blades of grass tickle his nose, the smell of pine and incense strong enough to make his nose itch. The area is a mess of gray light and candlelight, a mixture of images so surreal it costs Castiel seconds before he can even makes sense of what he sees.

There’s a circle made of red yarn on the ground, supported by five stakes. A black candle rests at each point, nestled among dried bones, glossy stones and old coins. Markings decorate the trees around the clearing, creating an enclosure where the air sizzles against Castiel’s translucent skin.

Nightmare or not, the pain is very real.

He inhales, slow and steady, keeping count of the seconds before he exhales. An exercise to calm his nerves, to make him believe that he’s in control of himself and the present situation.

Digging his nails into the moist earth, he counts “one, two, three, four—” and stops.

 

_One, two three, four—_

“Go along and open the door,” says another voice, and Castiel cannot believe that he was stupid enough to not see it from the start.

Hands scrambling for purchase, he looks up at the woman in black, standing by the edge of the clearing. “You—” Castiel hacks out the word, and grows more alarmed at the sight of blood that just splattered from his mouth.

“Nice of you to finally join us, Clarence.”

Castiel struggles to get back on his feet, but something heavy presses down on his back. There’s a screech, not unlike the sound of a thousand screeching banshees, and he yells along with it, covering his ears.

Angling his head, he can see the dark mass of moving tendrils settling by Meg’s side.

The wraith’s stench is dulled by the smell of incense and nature, but still the fetid odor of a million rotting corpses drips around it. It has no defined form, although it is vaguely humanoid, wrapped in strips of black that hang off its sides like tentacles. The mask is a perfect oval, white and unblemished, with stripes of black sprouting from where the nose would be. There’s a diagonal strip of dark brown, cracking along the edges, and Castiel just knows that it’s the same thing he saw six years back. Only, back then, his son’s blood upon the mask was fresh.

“I’m dreaming,” Castiel says, more a grunt than actual words as he shuts his eyes and wills it all away. “None of this is real.”

“Dreams are often portals to the waking world, Castiel. Think of this as the Matrix. It may be a dream, but that doesn’t mean that it’s not real,” Meg coos, crossing the clearing to squat by Castiel’s not-quite-there form. “Actually, since you were such a good sport and came here by yourself, I’m gonna let you in on a little secret.”

Taking a step back, Meg motions for the creature to come closer.

Castiel screams when the creature comes in contact with his skin, its evil so supreme and pure that even Hell would seem like a respite. The touch is acid and brimstone, it is torture in its most absolute form as it drags him across the forest floor.

“Your little slut of a late wife wasn’t lying when she mentioned out-of-body experiences. Magic of this kind requires only the brightest of lights to be performed, and what’s brighter than a human’s soul, huh?” Meg ties Castiel’s limbs to the stakes once the creature drops him at the center of the circle. “It’s not impossible to separate the soul from the body, seems to be all the rage nowadays, but that little wise-ass of a boyfriend you have made it a lot harder than it had to be.”

Straddling Castiel’s stomach, she pushes the trench coat off his shoulders, as far it can go. In one rough movement, Meg rips his shirt open, and puts one of the buttons in her jeans’ pocket. From the inside of her boot, she draws out a short knife, its hilt golden and twined with the same color of yarn as everything else.

“Not even voodoo is exempt from the law of equivalent exchange, sadly. I’m gonna need that heart of yours, Castiel. Made a little jar for it, but only because I like you so much. Unfortunately—or, fortunately for you, your literal heart isn’t here.” Meg taps the tip of the knife against her lip before embedding it on the ground beside Castiel’s head. “I’m gonna make you an offer you can’t refuse.”

Words and thoughts keep thrashing around Castiel’s mind, unable to go far beyond the now in this dreamlike state. He feels excruciating pain going off like thousands of volts of electricity at once. There is enough fear and gripping horror to keep him from breathing, but there is also rage that pushes away at the veil.

The wraith comes when Meg calls, does her bidding and obediently floats by her side.

 _Meg_ is its master.

“You killed them,” Castiel says, futilely struggling against the holds. “You cold-hearted bitch.”

“Hey, at least I wasn’t the one to pull the trigger. You can thank Misty for that,” she says, jamming her thumb in the wraith’s direction. “If it’s any consolation, the kid went quick. Emily Rose, however… I made her pay for the things she did to you.” Her tone is sickly sweet, almost a purr as she sits cross-legged on the ground just outside the circle, her back to the creek.

That’s when Castiel sees it. A mound of leaves moves adjacent to the muddy shore of the creek. He would have made nothing of it if it wasn’t for the brief glint of golden eyes looking right back at him from underneath the cover of foliage. He coolly looks over to Meg, who is now mixing multi-colored powders in a silver bowl. The wraith is aimlessly hovering around the clearing.

“She never did anything to me,” Castiel says, shivering when the temperature drops. His teeth clatter, but they make no sound.

“Did they ever tell you how they found her? In the alley, naked and bleeding? Her throat was stuffed with tiny velvet bags, but that wasn’t why she choked to death. Remember Roger? Same ol’ Roger who locked us up in the closet for a short while?” Meg’s smile is fond as she reaches out to run a hand through Castiel’s hair. “I think that was the decisive point right there—having your tongue in my mouth. You were always a great kisser.”

Castiel clenches his teeth as he stares at a nonexistent sky. The edges of the trees blur the firmament, leaving it to cloud in pale grays and blues.

“You changed me, Cas. How’s that for clichés?” She chuckles. “We were always stuck in this competitive streak of who could out-art who, and in the end, you won. Little Emily won. And poor ol’ Meg just poofed out of existence. I was somewhere in Arkansas when I bumped into this nice lady who gave me a gris-gris. I guess I made an art form out of it.”

The moving bushel of leaves is no longer there, and Castiel wonders if he imagined it. After all, Dean probably hasn’t even noticed he’s gone.

Unsure of what to do, Castiel decides to stall little bit longer. “So you turned to voodoo to plot your revenge? That doesn’t sound like you. You were always a more… hands-on kind of person.”

Meg barks out a laugh that makes Castiel wince.

“Revenge? Oh my God, why would you even think that I’d get knee-deep into this shit for revenge? That really hurts, Cas, right here,” she says, dramatically placing a hand over her heart. “I need some ingredients, and I just so happen to have a soft spot for you. I could have gotten anyone else, but there was a costumer’s satisfaction guarantee on your head. Guess you can call it a two-for-one sale.”

Placing the bowl on the ground, Meg dips two of her fingers into the powdery concoction before leaning over Castiel’s body and dabbing his face at six different points. Then she stands up and takes the bowl with her, walking over to the wraith that’s stopped moving and is now lingering by a tree. With unwavering precision, she repeats the actions upon the white mask.

Chills erupt in Castiel’s current form.

“My father died a few months after graduation. Tragic car accident on the highway. Some drunk chick driving a ‘92 Cherokee rammed into his Toyota.” Her smile is grim when Castiel’s eyes widen a fraction of an inch. “You remember that, don’t you?”

“Jesus,” Castiel mutters, disbelieving. He does remember that night, that phone call. He and Emily had gone steady just a few months prior to the accident, and he remembers the cops telling him that it had been fatal for the other driver. The next morning, Emily called to tell him that she was fine, that the cops were just exaggerating. _Nothing but a fender-bender, honeycakes._

“Lilith told me I could bring him back—something like necromancy. Talk to him for a little while—settle some things, but that it would take practice and finely crafted materials. You gotta wait for the hearts to age like fine wine.” Meg snaps her fingers and points off to her left, and with a thunderous rumble, the wraith speedily vanishes. “I did us both a favor, the night I killed Emily Rose. A win-win situation. I got a heart, you got free of her bullshit.”

“You’re insane.”

“Maybe, but insanity has its perks.”

Castiel snorts derisively.

Brandishing the knife, Meg retakes her seat on Castiel’s stomach. Her smirk is twisted and flirtatious, a mockery of their friendship so many years ago. “I spy with my little eye… a love mark or two. I guess you two bumped uglies last night, eh?”

Numb to the constant blows that continue to come, Castiel is unfazed by the statement. He tries to shrug. The situation rings far less terrifying in the absence of the wraith, and in turn makes him feel bold. “That won’t be a problem will it?”

“No, I don’t think so. Dean’s a hot piece of ass—when he’s not half fish. But this will probably be troublesome for you,” Meg explains, running a long nail down Castiel’s bare chest. “You see, little girls grow up. They move on from Daddy to, well, _this_.” She leans forward to press her nose against the scruff of Castiel’s cheek, her dark hair tickling his neck.

“It’s all very Oedipus of you, but I fail to see your point.”

“My point is that I have the heart of a liar and the heart of a saint… All I need is one more.”

“The heart of a sour hermit?”

Meg cocks her head to the side and sneers. “Did you suddenly swallow a clown? No, you ass, the heart of one loved.”

Castiel laughs mirthlessly, his throat dry and scratchy. “Normal people go to the movie theaters, or maybe a nice restaurant—”

“I gave you a chance, you little shithead. You bailed on me so you could go and make puppy eyes at Winchester. I’m running out of patience, and the sixth year is well on the way out, so I gotta hurry this along.”

“I wasn’t lying when I said that I’d forgotten—”

“Shut up,” Meg snaps, slapping him across the face and tumbling forward when her hand goes right through it. Her face contorts with rage when he smirks. “Last chance, Castiel. Last fucking chance, so you better listen up. Either I can carve out that pretty little heart of yours and shove it into a shoebox, or you can come with. I’ll be a lady and give you the choice.”

Castiel doesn’t move as the knife’s tip digs into the skin above his heart. He doesn’t understand why some things can be felt while others slip through his ghostly manifestation, but something tells him that it would be a very bad idea to ask.

Head reeling with confusion, Castiel repeats Meg’s words in his head. He can only remember one thing at a time, but it’s all a disjointed mess of half-formed thoughts. Emily killed Meg’s father in a drunken stupor, but she isn’t being driven by revenge.

Castiel feels feverish as his eyes burn and ache, but he refuses to go under.

Ingredients for a spell to bring her father back.

Hearts. The heart of Emily, the heart of his son... and now his.

But she’s willing to call it all off.

“You’re bribing me,” Castiel says, and his words sound muffled to his ears, almost slurred.

“That’s one way to put it.”

“You can’t buy my love, Meg. Much less threaten me for it. I hardly have any left to give,” he mumbles bitterly, turning his head towards the creek, but there is still nothing there. He doesn’t know how much time he’ll be able to buy himself.

“I’m selling you an extension of time. Don’t be ungrateful.”

“You murder my family, rip my soul from my body without my consent, use said dead family to bait me all the way out here, and now you’re threatening to kill me. Enlighten me; why would I even consider going with you to… wherever it is you want to take me?”

“It’s worth it.”

“How is that worth it?!” Castiel yells, enraged. “You’re gambling between my life and your father’s. Are we both that worthless to you? Are you really that petty?!”

“Because it’s _you!_ ” Meg hisses, a hand now gripping tightly at Castiel’s throat. “Don’t you get it? It’s you! Angels would fall for you as much as demons would seek redemption through you. The dead will walk the Earth if only for a taste of that goddamned light of yours, Castiel. Hell if I know why that is. Your presence is a siren song that will bring kings to their knees, and oh how I want that.”

 _They swarm._ Missouri’s words are loud and clear.

“You took him from me. You killed my son,” Castiel says, words ringing low and deadly. Anger gives him power over grief. “I would rather face the hounds of Hell than stay with you.”

“Then you die.”

Surprisingly, Castiel is unafraid.

“Go right ahead. But remember that back home, waiting for me to wake up, is one Dean Winchester. And he won’t sleep until your head is mounted on a spike for the world to see. None of your spirits or wraiths can save you from him.” Castiel smiles with satisfaction at the blank look on Meg’s face.

“Good thing I like to live life on the edge,” Meg says, plunging down the knife into the center of his chest.

Castiel whimpers, no fight left in him to even scream out in pain as Meg pulls the blade downward, ripping translucent skin in two. Blood bubbles at the incision, but dissipates before it can reach her hands or the dirt beneath him. She releases the hilt when it’s deeply embedded in his stomach.

It hurts, but not as much as a physical cut. The true pain lies in the knowledge that this will have repercussions once he returns to his body, if he ever does. The injury will most likely kill him. But Meg's touch stings like poison, and Castiel shuts his eyes in relief the moment she gets off of him.

“The door has been opened, the dead will rise. Oh Lord, grant me the power to mend the divide,” Meg chants, arms to her sides and head straight, looking into the forest. “The door has been opened, the dead will rise. Oh Lord, grant me the power to mend the divide.” Her body jerks, and she lurches over, straightens up to clap her hands in cadence to something only she can hear.

Castiel can only watch in horror as she dances, mutters words he can’t understand until she begins speaking in English again. “Bring the fire, burn the heart—start the pyre, thieve the rot.”

Each passing second multiplies the stinging in his chest as the blood pumps faster. Castiel’s eyes begin to drift as Meg continues her invocation. The wraith may not be present, but Castiel feels its icy cold touch like Death’s, carving into his chest. He can no longer move, causing him to sob in his hopelessness.

And what a fitting way to die.

 

•••

Dean wakes up with a crick in his neck.

He untangles his limbs from around Castiel’s still sleeping form, and flops onto his back as gently as possible, to not disturb his—his whatever Castiel is to him. _Mate_ would probably be a good word, despite the difference in species. After two hundred and thirty five years, Dean has finally found his lifelong mate. Not that he’d tell it to Cas that way, at least not yet, since the guy is still edgy on the human-slash-fish thing.

The sex is good. Hell, the sex is fucking awesome, but it hardly compares to the pulsing heat Castiel’s presence triggers deep in the cavity of Dean’s chest. Okay, so maybe that sounds a little cliché and far too chick-flick oriented for Dean’s liking, but it’s the goddamned truth.

The soreness makes Dean flinch after slowly getting up from the bed, but it’s the good sort of ache, the kind that says ‘Castiel was here’.

Making sure to smoothly cover Castiel with the sheets, Dean lingers over him, taking in the dark lashes that rest over soft cheeks. His eyes are moving behind their lids and Dean wonders what he’s dreaming about. Castiel looks pale, however, even in the dim morning light that slips past the curtains.

Right then, Castiel quivers but doesn’t open his eyes. A hand pressed to his forehead reveals that he’s cold to the touch. Dean attributes it to Castiel’s hypoglycemia, or maybe he’s coming down with a cold after last night’s fun out in the snow.

“Up and at ‘em, sleepy head,” Dean says, low and raspy just beside his ear. He doesn’t want to wake him just yet, but if Castiel is going through an episode, it would be best to tend to it ASAP. Dean shakes him by the shoulder when Castiel doesn’t budge. “Cas, get up. I’ll make us some waffles.”

Dean straightens up on the ledge of the bed and frowns.

“Man, you sleep like a fucking log,” he mutters, standing up and grabbing last night’s discarded clothes. The hems of his jeans are blissfully dry. “You better be up by the time I’m done in the kitchen, or I’m eating your serving too.” Dean makes sure to speak loudly, but still, Castiel doesn’t give the slightest sign of waking up.

Rolling his eyes, Dean makes a pit stop at the bathroom to relieve himself, take a quick shower, and annihilate his morning breath. After their first all-nighter, Dean stocked up on personal effects for the morning-afters.

The feeling of belonging, of knowing that Castiel has welcomed him into his home with open arms, is something Dean feels he will never get over. The bantering is his favorite part of the camaraderie they’ve formed, especially when Castiel wakes up awfully cranky (which happens to be always) and is faced with the morning person that is Dean. The place has become a home away from home, which is something Dean hasn't associated with old Autumn Hollow, not for centuries.

The darkness embedded deep in the house’s foundation—even after being renovated and smudged—recedes whenever Castiel walks into a room with those stunning baby blues and gummy smile, those crinkles beside his eyes and the deep rumble of his laughter.

And fuck, Dean is _whipped._

Dabbing a towel over his face, Dean takes the stairs two at a time and heads into the kitchen. He sets out food for the cat, who strangely isn’t there.

Making sure to be as noisy as possible, Dean pulls out the pans. He puts coffee to brew, and hums himself a song as he takes out everything he needs to start breakfast. No one can beat Castiel’s cooking, not even Sam, but Dean is pretty damn sure his own skills are pretty up there. With the Food Network as his ally, Dean can take on all of America’s culinary artists.

Dean is in the middle of checking his phone when something right outside the window catches his eye. He squints, but sees nothing but the lighthouse in the distance. But he knows better than to write it off as a passing leaf or a seagull.

Dean checks around the house, making sure everything remains safe. Last night’s snow evaporated with the morning sun, leaving the earth shimmering with its remnants. The salt line by the door is intact, so are the ones at the windows and the protection charms drawn on the walls.

It's only when Dean is about to grab the carton of milk from the fridge, that he sees the movement again, this time much closer and better outlined.

The world goes quiet, vacuum sealed.

It’s the kind of phenomenon meant to drive humans towards insanity, but since he has lived most of his unnatural life in the depths of the ocean, he knows he's as close to home on land as he’s ever going to get. Dean is not about to panic.

He pads his way to the window in his bare feet, and as he peers out, a swirling mass of black and white appears just outside the glass pane.

Dean’s eyes narrow menacingly when the window pane begins to vibrate, threatening to shatter. “I’d like to you see try, you ugly son of a bitch.”

Eerily humanoid, the wraith takes a few steps back and stands there, while the strips of cloth that drape from its form all twist and turn like snakes around it. Its feet never touch the floor, but the ground beneath it shrivels up and turns inside out, maggots and mud now staining where green grass had once been.

Eyes on the window, Dean blindly tries to reach for his phone. He looks away for just a second, long enough to find it, only to see that the wraith is gone when he looks back.

Dean curses as he flips open his phone, dialing Benny’s number by memory. He’s going to need backup if he’s going to snuff that thing off the face of the Earth.

The moment Dean jams his thumb on the call button, there’s a frantic knocking at the door. Dean freezes, hearing Benny’s voice drift out of the phone, but he is too on edge to talk aloud.

The knocking comes again, and this time, a familiar voice calls out. “Dean!”

Dean flips the phone shut and slowly inches towards the door. “Sam?”

“Dean, we’ve got trouble. Big time,” Sam says, his voice muffled across the door. He sounds out of breath, as if he’s been running a marathon.

Looking through the peephole first, Dean unlocks and removes the latches before pulling open the door. “Sam—”

“It’s Cas, he’s in trouble.” Sam tries to settle his agitated breathing while waving his hands, as if the motion will help get his point across urgently enough. “Some chick has him bound in Redtail and she just sent the wraith away—I don’t know where but it’s not looking good.”

Dean is left blinking on the spot, feeling as if the world has disappeared from underneath his feet. His hands are up, trying to calm Sam down while attempting to make sense of what his brother is saying. Sam’s skin is soaked from head to toe, but his clothing is dry and lopsided.

Sam has been out of the water for over a week, and returned to it just last night. Dean concludes that he is most likely confused and disoriented as a consequence.

“Cas is upstairs,” Dean assures with a long and slow breath, grabbing a towel from the still-unsorted laundry basket. “You shouldn’t even be on land yet, Sam.”

“No, he’s not. Well, he might be—” Sam stops, hazel eyes moving back and forth as he thinks, apparently putting two and two together.

“Sam?”

But Sam holds up a hand, thinking hard and fast. “Are you sure it’s him?”

Bewildered, Dean pulls a face. “Tch, yeah, I’m pretty damn sure.”

“Shit.”

Dean tenses even more at the hissed word. “What? What is it?”

“The wraith is here, isn’t it?”

Swallowing around the knot in his throat, Dean nods. “It was right outside two seconds before you came knocking. Are you going to tell me what the hell is going on or do I have to beat it out of you?”

It takes Sam two more seconds before he blurts out, “That woman is going to kill him! A circle of red yarn, I didn’t hear all the details but she said something about hearts and—I read about this before, I think, it’s not exactly the same but—”

“Sam, talk to me!”

“She’s bound his soul and she’s going to use it to siphon out his heart. At least, I think that’s what she’s going to do. Cas was putting up a hell of a fight, and she didn’t say it but, I think she’ll just destroy his soul when she gets what she wants.” Sam stops and frantically runs the towel through his hair. “I was up the creek when I saw blood in the water. I watched the whole thing from there. I think Cas saw me.”

It takes Dean a second to bite down the ire he knows will consume him. Now isn’t the time for irrational acts of valor, or going in head first without knowing what they’re up against. “A witch?”

“Looked like voodoo.”

Dean nods and unclenches his fists, the feeling of half-moons biting into his palms lingering. “Why send the wraith _here_ if she already has Cas?” Dean holds up a finger before Sam can answer. “It’s probably a—a decoy. She’s buying herself time.”

“So what’s the plan?” Sam asks, throwing the towel aside and rubbing his hands to warm them. “We can’t leave him alone with this thing surrounding the house.”

“I was calling for backup when that thing popped up. I can get Benny, him and the others could be here in a few minutes.”

“We don’t _have_ a few minutes, Dean. She’s going to gut him any damn second.”

Dean moves away from him to grab the industrial sized bag of salt Castiel keeps in a kitchen cabinet. “I need you to triple check those wards, make sure that thing can’t get in. I’ll lay more lines inside the house, just in case. If it doesn’t stop it, at least it’ll delay it long enough until we get back. And hurry up.”

Sam nods dutifully, and heads outside.

Along each threshold, Dean hurriedly lays down a line of salt. He thickens the ones by the doors and windows, and makes the one behind Castiel’s bedroom door especially thick. Lastly, with a little difficulty, Dean pulls the bed away from the wall and makes a circle around it. Dean double-checks the charms etched on the walls, and the bronze pendant that rests over Castiel’s bare chest.

It’s time consuming, but Dean would rather not take his chances.

The house is as secure as it can possibly get, but Dean can feel a black dread low in his stomach: none of it will be enough to keep the darkness out. Dean has never dealt with a wraith before, but its ability to cause harm even in its absence makes him wary. Something tells Dean that no matter the precautions, this thing will find its way in.

Running a hand over Castiel’s cheek, Dean presses his lips to Castiel’s forehead and breathes in, desperate to take some of the calm he sees glowing like a halo around Castiel’s sleeping body.

It’s not the first time Dean has gone after something sinister. He’s seen death and torture and black magic cast upon monster and human alike. But this is personal. His family has suffered enough, and Castiel, new as he may be, is now a part of it.

“Hang in there, buddy. I’m coming for you. Sam and I will get you back,” Dean whispers, tucking him in properly and fixing the mess of dark hair. “Hang on, Cas. Put that stubbornness to good use.”

When another knock on the door gets his attention, Dean presses a firm kiss to Castiel’s mouth before pulling away. Sam is respectfully looking away, and says nothing.

Dean shuts the bedroom door and quadruple checks the salt.

“Walls are as safe as they can get,” Sam says, touching Dean’s shoulder before Dean grunts and shifts out of his brother’s grip. Dean is grateful that the stairs are too narrow to let them walk side by side. Sam doesn’t try it again.

“Any idea on how to gank a wraith?” Dean asks, wanting to avoid any comforting moments. Adrenaline is pumping fast, mixing with rage and the urge to maim.

Sam opens the front door and lets them both out, before locking it behind him. “Best bet? You snip it at the source. Follow the creek that ends a few miles from here, it’ll take us right to the clearing.”

They jog to the Impala, where Dean pops the trunk and lifts the fake bottom, exposing an arsenal of weapons. The good thing about witches is that they’re still human—nothing a good shot to the heart, head or vital artery can’t handle.

Dean straps a knife to his boot, and waits for Sam to grab his glock, before picking up the sharpened machete and shutting the trunk. He doesn’t meet Sam’s eye while he does so.

Guns are clean, fast and easy; Dean wants neither thing. The feral side of him that thirsts for blood will always be there, no matter how domesticated he’s become over the centuries. He’ll wring the life out of the bitch with his own hands, and he’ll savor it to the very last second.

“Let’s go,” says Dean, and heads into the forest.

 

•••

The coffeemaker drips.

Black coffee trickles down the pot’s side where Dean didn’t fully align it.

Coffee pools on the counter, the black spot growing and growing until it overflows over the edge and onto the ground, where the peeled cord of Castiel’s A/C adapter charges his laptop.

 

•••

Very few beams of sunlight penetrate the thick trees of Redtail forest, illuminating the green world of pine needles and winter grass around Dean and Sam. Usually alive with the sound of critters and wildlife, the forest looks and sounds dead in its sickly gray light. The distant trees are swallowed up by moving shadows that recede with each step the brothers take.

It isn’t long before Sam begins to hack and wheeze, and they stop running for a brief second so he can catch his breath. He gasps, coughs again, before shaking his head when Dean grabs him by the elbow.

“Sam,” Dean warns, already guiding his brother to the ledge of the creek. “You sound like a fish out of water. You gotta go.”

“I’m fine,” he says, wrestling himself free of Dean’s iron grip. “You’re not doing this alone. A few more hours won’t kill me.” Unlike Dean’s, Sam’s tattoos are fresh, barely five months old, and living on land is still difficult to do. “The faster we get this done, the faster I can take a dip.”

For all the martyrdom Sam puts himself through, he still looks like a scared kid. And while Dean is desperate to get a move on, Sam will always come first.

Dean is about to force him towards the water when he hears the sound of crunching leaves. He quickly turns, scouring the thick underbrush for the source of the sound, but it’s only Lenore, sitting on the middle of the unmarked path, staring at them with beady yellow eyes.

“It’s the cat,” Sam says, sounding bewildered.

“What the hell is she doing out here?” When Dean tries to go near her, the cat hisses. “Come on, girl. It’s just me.” He tentatively reaches out a hand, but Lenore jumps back, and what lands isn't normal.

Sam is quick to shoot at it, but the animal is quicker.

About the height of Sam’s hip, the creature’s legs are twisted outwards like a spider’s. Its fur falls away as it hisses deep in its stomach, leaving behind charred skin that wrinkles as it expands and contracts with each sideways step. The tail is gone, and its claws are long as they tip-tap the dry leaves underneath. It has no ears.

“Dean, what the hell is that?”

Dean holds his machete in front of him, trying to put himself between Sam and the creature without taking his eyes off it. “That would be a hellcat.”

“That’s nice,” Sam says, sarcastically. “Holy water?”

“Unless you want to go sanctify the creek, I got nothing.”

When the creature pounces, Sam is ready for it, shooting point-blank at its chest. Its weight hits them both, legs like steel knocking them to the ground.

Dean hacks at its knees with his machete, but the hellcat swipes his face with a claw.

Sam slams himself against the monster’s side, knocking it off Dean and quickly shooting it in the head.

The hellcat screeches but shakes him off, wounded but otherwise unfazed by the bullet as it takes several steps back, sizing them both up.

Dean gets to his feet, and is surprised when Sam pushes him into the trees. “Sam!”

“Go get Castiel. I’ll take care of this thing,” Sam shouts, deftly changing the clip and firing a string of bullets into the animal.

Dean hesitates, but realizes that Sam doesn’t intend to fight the creature for long.

He watches, impressed, as his little brother agilely moves through the narrow tree trunks with the hellcat hot on his trail. But the creature is too big, and Dean can see it falling farther and farther behind by the second. Sam is smart and fast on his feet, and Dean can continue on, assured that his brother has the situation under control.

There’s been a hellcat sleeping at the foot of Castiel’s bed, lounging on Dean’s lap and nuzzling at Sam’s side all this time, and no one noticed. But what bothers Dean the most is that it passed the salt lines without the least bit of trouble. If something as evil as a hellcat could slip through, what else might? What else _did?_

The poisoned pills, the wraith lurking in the attic— Dean feels his stomach bottom out.

Staying under the cover of the trees, Dean keeps the creek in sight as he quickly treks deeper into the forest. His cheek stings, and he can feel the blood caking to his skin and mixing with the dirt.

The wall.

Dean slows his stride, and thinks back to the time Castiel was trying to write in his study. The day after the Autumn Festival.

The old wall, the one that coven of witches had put up after John went under.

The hieroglyphs were no longer there, but Dean remembers the power calling to him, pulling him in. Castiel didn’t knock it down, he’d probably just had it covered with plaster and wallpaper.

Piece by piece, the picture slowly begins to make sense. The cat, the wraith, the nightmares—the house has never been secure. The amount of salt and sage didn’t matter, the amulets are useless. Dean feels sick at the thought that maybe the spell to counter his song has been void, that Castiel was tricked once again into believing that those emotions are his own.

Dean comes to a full stop when his mind gives him something else. No magic could ever function inside the house, not with the wall. No magic ever has since 1818.

Within the plaster walls of the house in Autumn Hollow, Castiel’s home, Dean’s siren song has never even entered. The very first time Dean walked in through that front door, when Castiel flirted over the shrimp stir-fry, that was all Cas. Every single thing—the rutting, the kissing, the hugging, the confessions… it was all _Cas._

Running a hand over his face, Dean lets his fingers linger over his mouth. Anger fades away into grief, because it’s no longer about avenging Castiel, it’s about bringing Cas back. The Cas who looks him in the eye and calls him out on his bullshit, who kisses him silent and holds him close just because he feels like it.

The smell of incense makes itself known, but the relief is short lived when he hears the piercing scream.

Dean runs.

Branches cut and tug at his jacket as he jumps over boulders and thorn bushes, but pain is of little import. He can hear Castiel’s agonized screams now, and there isn’t time to think about what to do next.

Breaking into the clearing, Dean makes for the woman twirling and jumping and jerking in abortive movements, as if she were possessed. Her black hair flows as she chants what Dean thinks is gibberish, ululating, and he could have taken her down—one smooth swipe of his machete and her head would be rolling—but he can’t look away from the man on the floor.

Centuries of curbing his appetite has made human interaction easier to live with, but seeing Castiel’s soul strapped and splayed, vulnerable and pure, makes Dean _hunger_.

There’s nothing different between this Castiel and the Castiel still in his bed. He’s just as solid, but despite the illusion, if Dean focuses just enough, he can almost see the vacant imprint on the ground. His chest is bare, bubbling with blood, but his dimmed eyes glisten like starlight.

Dean can’t stop his feet from moving forward, or his knees from buckling as Castiel pulls him in.

Pain sears through Dean’s body, starvation so tenacious that it demands to be sated. Just a taste. All he wants is a taste of Castiel’s radiant soul, before it consumes Dean wholly.

“Oh,” says the woman, sounding equal parts surprised and pleased. “This is unexpected.”

Dean moves forward, his lips lingering inches away from Castiel’s mouth. It will only be a little nibble, nothing that will permanently harm Castiel. But his blue eyes are moving, blankly looking at Dean.

“Go ahead, Dean,” the woman purrs, still out of sight. “He’s nice and ripe.”

Castiel doesn’t speak, neither does he move.

“Cas? You okay?” Dean asks, lingering inches away from the sheer heat that emanates from Castiel’s body, fighting with all his might not to sink in those last few breadths.

Castiel feebly nods his head. “It hurts,” he whispers.

“It’s okay. It’s all right, I’m gonna get you back safely, I promise,” Dean says, words urgent as he forces himself to straighten up and step away with a colossal effort.

He’s come a long way, they both have, and he’s not about to destroy that bond.

“I’m only going to say this once—” he continues, turning to face the woman who’s pressed herself against a tree. He gestures for her to speak; he knows her, but he can’t remember her name.

“Meg,” she says, her smile wicked.

“Meg,” Dean repeats, casually walking up to her, pulling away the veil of his wrath as he places the machete against her throat. “Undo the spell, let Cas back in his body, call off your pets, and walk away.”

“If I don’t?”

“I kill you.”

Meg wiggles her nose, and chuckles. “And if I do?”

Dean pretends to think about it. “I’ll still kill you.”

“That doesn’t strike me like much of a fair deal, Dean-o.”

Dean shrugs his bottom lip and considers it, nodding before sobering up and sneering. He exchanges the machete for his hand, and squeezes just enough to make her eyes go wide.

“I know it hardly seems fair, but to be honest, I can make this a lot more difficult for you. You see, no one touches what’s mine, and you’ve been fucking around with him for an awfully long time…” Dean tightens his grip, and he can feel her struggle beneath his palm.

“If not for me,” Meg chokes out, standing on her tiptoes to get some air, “you never would have met him. He never would have moved to the island.”

“I could write you a thank you letter and bury it with you.”

“Listen to me—”

“You’ve done enough talking,” Dean growls, before giving the column of her throat another squeeze. “Call off your wraith.”

“It won’t stop,” Meg snarls, kicking at Dean’s leg, but he doesn’t budge.

Narrowing his eyes, Dean eases his grip by just a fraction. “How do I stop it?” It’s less of a question and more of a command.

“You can’t, shortstop,” Meg says with a defiant smirk. “It’s got his scent, and it won’t stop haunting Castiel until his ticker stops, whether I’m here or not. With me gone, there will be nothing to call it back if it gets too hard to handle for poor little Cas. So think about that for a while.”

Dean’s face is shrouded with disdain, but through it, he cracks a smile. “Good to know.”

Meg gasps frantically when Dean squeezes hard enough to break bone. She wheezes out something that sounds like ‘I’ll come back’, and Dean replies with slamming her head against the tree trunk. “I-I w-will.”

Dean lifts his machete, ready to hack—but Castiel coughs violently. Dean starts, whips around in time to see Castiel’s body jerk and tug at the binds, fresh blood oozing from his chest.

Dean instinctively goes for him but stops a second later, turning back to Meg. “What’s happening to him?” When she doesn’t answer, Dean drives the machete clean through her midriff, impaling her to the tree.

Meg whimpers, but is otherwise silent as she scrambles around the rusty blade. Blood stains her black blouse, and the top of her blue jeans. She fixes Dean with a hateful glare. “Cut the thread to find out, a-asshole.”

“Tell me!” Dean bellows, twisting the machete by the hilt as the other hand retakes its place at Meg’s throat.

“You got…ten seconds to c-cut the thread, or he will wake up without a soul and…die. Do note that, even with his soul back, he’s going to die due to lack of heart. Lose-lose situation, I guess,” Meg croaks, her laugh cut short in the space of a few seconds, as Dean yanks out the machete and thrusts it, ruthlessly, through her throat.

He moves quickly, doesn’t linger long enough to hear her head fall, thoughts running so fast he fears he’ll seize up in fear, but he hacks at the red yarn before deciding otherwise.

Dean stumbles back when Castiel’s form flickers once, twice, three times before there’s nothing there, other than the depression of a merely solid body.

Panicked, Dean turns to Meg’s headless form, and makes a note to come back and get rid of her remains after he’s tended to Castiel. He only hopes that killing her wasn’t a mistake. But they’ve got Missouri, and Bobby, and several others who know a thing or two about the occult.

Centuries without taking a single life, this is one he will never regret taking. The coldness he feels in his heart ought to disturb him, but he cannot possibly find within himself a single fuck to give.

Taking a steadying breath, Dean runs headlong into the forest, back towards Autumn Hollow.

 

•••

Fire is raging.

Smoke drowns out the top of the live oaks, filling the swaying jars like black ink and scorching the grass around the house.

There’s a hole in the wall.

Dean can’t see inside the house, into the kitchen or the living room; there’s just orange and red and black.

He goes in, the crook of his arm covering his nose as he dodges falling beams and smoldering wood. The fire alarm is still going off, and the constant beeping is disorienting, but Dean pushes on.

He’s surprised and alarmed to see Sam’s silhouette going into Castiel’s room as he darts up the stairs, flinching and avoiding the hot surfaces around him. The fire has already reached the top floor, having collapsed the area above the kitchen, but it has yet to make its way to the stairway and the bedroom.

What Dean finds on the other side of the bedroom door makes his blood run cold.

Castiel is still on the bed, chest moving strangely, and as Dean steps closer, he see the blotch of red that is staining the gray sheets. He shoots Sam a quick look, but his brother’s back is turned. Dean immediately sees what Sam’s doing.

His little brother has positioned himself between the bed and the wraith, whose bandaged hands are dripping red onto the wooden floor. The mask is gone, and Dean has to look away from its face: a gaping hole of _nothing_.

Dean inches towards the bed, but the wraith screeches loud enough to make the bones in his ears feel like liquid. “I’m right here, Sammy!”

Sam doesn’t turn around, but nods his head to let Dean know that he heard. “It won’t die,” Sam says, loud enough to be heard over the roaring of the fire and the partial deafness from the screech. “Iron, silver, holy water—nothing. I got nothing.”

“You can’t kill it,” Dean yells out, but the floor suddenly lurches, and his eyes widen. “Shit! Shit, shit! Sam, we gotta go!”

The wraith doesn’t move, feet still not touching the floor.

Sam walks slowly towards the door, not turning away from the creature while Dean pulls the sheets out of the corner of the bed and clumsily wraps them tightly around Castiel. He’s heavy, but Dean manages to sling him over his shoulder, and wastes no time in hastening out the door.

“Come on, Sam!” He looks back to make sure that Sam is behind him, before thumping down the creaking stairs.

The house groans and cracks, vinyl records melting, books fueling the inferno as the three of them barrel into the kitchen, coughing when smoke threatens to choke. Sam leads the way, shoving Dean to the side when a blazing plank of wood crashes down next to him.

Out of the house, Dean stumbles on, far from the smoke and the crumbling structure. He slides down the damp mounds of dirt and pads onto the wet sand, Sam coughing and retching close behind.

The flames are roaring, but the rolling seashore grants Dean some comfort.

As gently as possible, he sets Castiel down on the sand, and quickly pulls away the wet sheets that are covering his chest. He’s aware of Sam hovering over his shoulder, trying to see if he’s okay, but without interrupting the panic attack that is slowly clawing its way at Dean’s stomach.

“Cas? You with me? Hey, h-hey, Castiel. Come on, man, answer me,” Dean frantically pleads, wiping away the caked blood and feeling his stomach twist and turn at the sight.

There’s a hole, roughly about the size of his fist, in Castiel’s chest.

“Cas!” Dean yells, hands frenziedly clawing at his chest, around the bleeding cavity. “Wake up, you goddamned fucking son of a bitch!”

Sam’s arms are suddenly at Dean’s waist, pulling him back, but Dean fights him with strength born out of grief and fury. “You’re hurting him,” Sam chastises, not giving up on keeping his brother away.

“He’s dying,” Dean spits out, short of breath and nearly wheezing as he struggles against the hold. “He’s dying.”

“It’s what humans do, Dean,” Sam whispers, squeezing his brother back against his chest. “They live and then they die.”

Dean sucks in a breath and bites his bottom lip, turning his face skyward, but all he sees is black smoke. “He can’t die, Sammy. He can’t.”

The heart is still there, not completely, but a good part of it is still there. Dean can see it from where he’s hunched over, held back only by Sam’s gargantuan arms. Sam, who once yelled and fought with him for falling in love with a human. The same little brother who warned him that doing so would only cause Dean pain and suffering.

The little brother who was right.

The only thing to interrupt the sound of destruction is Sam’s voice, nothing but a whisper besides Dean’s ear. “Bring him into the water.”

Dean goes very still, doesn’t budge where he’s being held kneeling on the sand. “Sam—”

“I can’t guarantee that it’ll save him, Dean. He might just drown, for all we know, but he’ll die if we wait.”

The gravity of Sam’s words rock Dean to the core.

_Bring him into the water._

Even myths have their own myths, and this is nothing but an old legend, one regarding mermaids no less—not even their own species. Old fairy-tales told around the figurative underwater campfire, where mortal souls are brought to the water by their non-human lovers—where mermaids turn human sailors into their own kind.

Sirens with souls are a myth on their own, but this is far older and far more unreliable. Both Dean and Sam know that a new siren hasn’t been created in centuries. They should know. They were the very last.

“Dean,” Sam urges, bringing him out of his reverie. “If he dies here, there’ll be nothing you can do.”

If Castiel dies here, Dean will devour a hundred souls and end it himself.

Castiel’s eyelids are fluttering, but his eyes are glossy and unseeing. His skin is unnaturally pale, lips almost blue as they twitch to mimic words he can’t speak. The image of Castiel dying, so frail and human, will be etched into Dean’s retinas until the edges of his eternity.

If Castiel does survive, as unlikely as it is, Meg’s wraith will never stop. It will kill and continue to torment him until the end of his days, or until madness claims him. But if the conversion does occur, if Dean were to bring him into the water, what would Castiel say? The same Castiel that hated Dean for lying to him—for keeping him in the dark about his magic, who was irked by the knowledge that he’d been under a spell since the start.

If Castiel wants nothing to do with him once he gets his training fins, Dean would let him go.

But the soul, the soul troubles Dean the most. Would Dean really curse him to an eternity without death? Selfish wouldn’t begin to describe the abomination.

Cold fingers find Dean’s hand, weakly gripping them and caressing the back of it. Castiel isn’t looking at him; he hasn’t moved at all, save for the hand that is now holding Dean’s.

“It’s okay to be a little bit selfish,” Sam says, slowly letting go of Dean and standing up, stepping away to give him space.

“This isn’t my choice to make,” Dean counters, bringing Castiel’s hand up, and kissing it.

The small gesture triggers something that makes Castiel’s eyes widen, the hand falling away to grip and tug at Dean’s leather jacket. His lips move, forming words Dean can’t understand, before stilling again.

Sam doesn’t say anything about the heartbreaking sob that escapes his brother.

“I can’t do it, Sammy.”

But he wants to.

Taking it as his cue, Sam moves in to gently gather Castiel up in his arms. “He can blame me for it,” Sam says, but his sad smile is tender as he looks at Dean. “There’s nothing left to lose.”

Dean walks beside him, covering Castiel’s feet with the charred end of the gray sheet.

The water is freezing as it soaks their jeans, the waves making their steps waver the deeper they go. Sam stops when it reaches well past Dean’s waist, and turns to him. He doesn’t have to say a word.

Stepping forward, Dean takes Castiel, his weight now buoyed by the sea, and holds him close to this chest. He’s deathly still, eyes at half mast, but his chest is still stuttering—there’s still time.

“I’m sorry for this, Cas,” Dean whispers, exhaling until all the air is out of his lungs, and takes them under.

 

•••

It’s cold.

His body is light.

Suspended in an endless void of crushing pressure.

There is no shadow in the cold depths of the ocean—just vast, unexplored eternity.

Timeless, oblivion, and conversion.

Castiel opens his eyes when his lungs begin to burn—the feeling of a flaming knife tearing through his chest—he tries to struggle, but he can’t move anything other than his fingertips.

He’s drowning.

He can see the surface just a few leagues away through the haze of panic, the sun glittering above the water, beckoning him to return.

But he can’t, despite how desperately he thrashes to rise above.

He can’t.

Arms are wrapped around him, pulling him deeper into the tranquil silence of the sea, and he feels fear. Only fear where there once was pain, but the water has numbed it. And that, too, fades away over time.

The monstrous figure that holds him is nothing to be afraid of. Apprehension disappears when green eyes glitter like precious stones, so Castiel hangs on. He breathes in deep as the arms tighten around him.

He’s safe now.

He’s dying, but he’s safe.

Castiel runs his fingers through Dean’s hair, but his arm falls back when everything ceases, when fire burns its way through his chest, and then suddenly…—

It stops.

“You’ve won,” he tries to say, but only bubbles escape his mouth when electricity bursts behind his eyes.

And it’s finally over.


	10. The Epilogue

_—Two years later._

Miami Beach is everything the brochure said it would be: sunny, hot, and the perfect romantic getaway.

The food is great and the drinks are even better—but the move to the south ripped a hole in Balthazar’s pocket big enough to swallow Texas. Instead of indulging in five star restaurants, he and Ralph are waiting in line at a hot dog cart.

It could be worse, he thinks to himself, but the thought fades into nothing as he lays eyes on a man walking along the shoreline, his lower back covered in unique tattoos that swirl and blend like gears. Their design rings familiar, but his attention snaps back when someone cuts in front of them.

“Watch it, kid,” Ralph is quick to say, but Balthazar stops him before he can move a muscle.

The man who cuts them off takes the carton tray with two dogs and two sodas, and pays the vendor before turning to them. “My bad, I thought you weren’t in the line,” says Dean, giving Balthazar a wink before walking away.

“Who the fuck does he think he is?”

“Oh, be quiet,” Balthazar chastises. “There’re children present.”

But his eyes follow Dean down the sandy beach, past the swarms of people and colorful umbrellas, past the women in bikinis catching a tan, and past the inflatable toys and volleyball net. Balthazar doesn’t look away until he sees Dean approach the same man he had been looking at earlier, the head of dark hair turning sideways to meet him.

Castiel smiles up at Dean, taking the tray and setting it on his lap until Dean sits next to him on the beach towel. They share a long kiss, one that makes Castiel flail and shove at Dean as they both laugh. Dean kisses him again, and again, until Castiel touches his face and brings up a hot dog.

“Are you going to order or not?” Ralph mumbles, crossing his arms as the vender stares at them, bored out of his mind.

“We’ll have a repeat of that last order, please,” says Balthazar, and he can’t stop smiling until long after the day is done.


End file.
